Authors: Suzanne Brockmann
And got the icon for
please wait
—the ages-old hourglass of doom.
Shane tapped his fingers as his remaining minutes ticked down, but then a pop-up appeared with the message “Vurp Requested.” He clicked “allow,” and the computer screen shifted and a man’s face appeared. He was in need of a shave, in the time-honored tradition of R&D men-children everywhere, in both the private and public sector. His hair was shaggy and light brown, and kept out of his eyes only by a pair of black-framed glasses. His mouth was wide and friendly, already curling up into a smile. He was wearing a bright blue T-shirt beneath an open lab coat that had the name Dr. E. Zerkowski embroidered over the upper left pocket.
He was sitting in what looked like some kind of computer lab. Shane could see rows of high-tech comm-stations, most of them occupied, in the rather large room behind him.
“Lieutenant Shane Laughlin,” the man said, with a genuine smile that touched eyes that were nearly the same color as that shirt. “Former Navy SEAL, twenty-eight years old, in excellent health … I was hoping we’d hear from you.”
The speaker levels had been turned way down, and with another train pulling up to the platform, Shane searched for the volume control as he said, “Hang on a sec, Doc, I gotta—”
But Zerkowski reached for something on his end and the volume rose as he said, “I’ll give you a boost. Some of those older comm-stations need help. I’m Elliot, by the way. I see you’re already in Boston—does this mean you’re coming in tomorrow?”
“I’m calling to clarify that this isn’t a drug-testing program that I’d be entering,” Shane said.
“We don’t manufacture pharmaceuticals,” Zerkowski said. “So, no. But I understand your concern. FYI, you can refuse to participate at any point in the testing process.
And
, to put your mind further at ease, the program you’d be going into involves the study of neural integration, which, in lay terms, deals with the amount—percentage-wise—of your brain that you utilize while doing a variety of tasks—from ditch-digging to complex calculus.” He smiled. “And sometimes we’ll ask you to combine the two to
see what happens when you multitask. Bottom line, Lieutenant, we’ll run a lot of tests on you. You might get a little tired of all the medical scans, but we don’t use markers—drugs—for any of ’em. In fact, we use no drugs at all in your particular program. It’ll be in your release form—our guarantee. And you’re free, during the course of your stay with us, to get a scan from an outside medical facility to verify that. We’ll cover the cost of one, but after that, you’ll have to pay out of pocket.”
“Fair enough,” Shane said.
“We’ve got a bed ready for you,” Zerkowski told him. “Also FYI, you’re exactly what we want in this latest group of test subjects, so please join us. Admission is from oh-six-hundred to noon, with an orientation session at thirteen hundred hours. Right after a delicious lunch. Try to arrive early—housing is assigned on a first come, first served basis, and some of our apartments are … pretty lovely.”
The slide show was still quietly running in the upper left corner of Shane’s monitor, and as if on cue, the picture changed to a view of what was, indeed, a very lovely apartment with a rich-looking leather sofa, upon which a young woman sat beside a little girl—both of them all smiles.
Family housing available
, Shane read.
“Good to know,” he told the doctor.
“Although we could probably manage to find room for you tonight, if you need a place to stay …?”
“No,” Shane said, “thanks, but …”
“Lockdown jitters.” Zerkowski smiled. “People hear that word,
lockdown
, and they think draconian conditions, last night of freedom, et cetera, et cetera. I get it. But while we don’t allow nonprescription drugs in the compound, we
do
have an on-site lounge that serves alcohol, including some pretty fine wine. You’ll get credit for a single drink a day—a half-bottle if wine’s your thing. You want more than that, again, you gotta pay for it. And as far as the food goes, it’s really quite good. I’ve been eating here for the past seven years, living here for the past three, and—”
Shane cut him off. “I’m sorry, but my time’s running out and I have another question—”
“Oh, no,
I’m
sorry,” Zerkowski said, reaching forward again to type something into his computer. “I should have realized. Better?”
The time-clock on the comm-station monitor was now frozen at fifty-eight seconds.
“Thanks,” Shane said.
“So how can I help you?” Zerkowski asked, still with that friendly smile on his face.
Shane just said it. Point-blank. “I’m blacklisted.” The word still left a bitter taste in his mouth, despite the fact that, if pressed, he’d do the exact same thing all over again. “I was kicked out of the Navy—a dishonorable discharge.” No point in saying more than that, in trying to explain what had happened, in attempting to justify what he’d done.
But Zerkowski’s expression didn’t change. “We’re aware of that. We have access to your military records.” He shook his head. “We don’t believe in blacklisting. A good candidate’s a good candidate.” He smiled again. “Besides, who are we going to piss off by ignoring the blacklists—that we aren’t
already
royally pissing off? You know what I’m saying …? With our pesky scientific facts and all that …?”
Shane couldn’t make light of it. “It’s a serious deal. My presence could jeopardize your funding—”
“Our funding’s secure,” Zerkowski said. He smiled again at Shane’s obvious disbelief. “Our founder is Dr. Jennifer Obermeyer, the same Dr. Obermeyer who invented the Obermeyer medical scanner—a little piece of technology that’s now in every hospital and doctor’s office around the globe. Fifteen years ago, she sold her shares in the family corporation, and even if those billions of dollars weren’t enough to sustain us indefinitely, she still gets royalties from her patent. So you can trust me when I tell you that our funding is secure.”
In the lower right corner of the screen was a photo of Jennifer Obermeyer—a still attractive forty-something blonde with a gleam of intelligence in her blue eyes.
Zerkowski must’ve made note of Shane’s focus because he
laughed. “Don’t get any ideas. She’s not here all that often. She mostly lets Dr. Bach—Joseph Bach—have full command, but she’s also there when we need her. This entire facility is on the former campus of her grandmother’s old alma mater. It was an all-women’s college that went bankrupt when the so-called Education Opportunities Act first passed. It was boarded up and rat-infested for about five years. But then Dr. O came in and, well, it’s this peaceful little secluded bit of rolling hills and brownstone buildings just outside of the city. We’re gated and protected. You’ll be safe—”
“I’m not worried about that,” Shane said.
“Understandably.” Zerkowski smiled. “So what else can I tell you? The pay’s really just a stipend. Forty bucks a week, but it’s nontaxable income, which helps. Of course, we provide room and board—and clothing, if you need it. Most people need it.”
Jesus. “That’s not employment,” Shane pointed out. “That’s slavery.”
“Hey, as much as we want you, there
are
plenty of applicants for
every
test session, and the cost of feeding and housing them—you—is steep. Plus there’s close to a hundred techs, students, and other subjects who live here full time—”
Shane cut him off. “I’ll be there.”
Zerkowski smiled again. “Excellent. Whoops, gotta go. Busy night. See you in the morning, Lieutenant.”
“It’s
mister
now,” Shane corrected him, but the connection had already been cut.
So okay. He was going to do this. They knew all about him, and still wanted him to attend. Which probably meant that this neural integration testing program was going to involve his doing calculus not only while digging ditches, but also while, oh, say, being waterboarded or otherwise tortured.
But he was going to have a lovely place to sleep and delicious food to eat. And a half-bottle of wine to drink each day.
And, yeah, despite the perks, they were going to lock him up every night. So it was going to be like serving time in a really fancy prison.
With no real freedom.
And quite possibly no access to women. Or at least no ability to be alone with anyone.
The slide show was still going, and it faded up on another large building that was six or seven stories high.
The barracks
, Shane read, which was more like it. Family housing was one thing, but he didn’t have a family, so he’d no doubt be given a bunk and a foot-locker in a room with his fellow male test subjects.
Which was fine, but limiting when it came to sex.
And there it was—Shane’s agenda for tonight: Get his sorry ass laid. It had been too many months since he’d enjoyed female company.
So far, today, he’d managed to not get beaten within an inch of his life. And he’d finally found employment from an organization that didn’t give a shit about the blacklists. Maybe—if the Obermeyer Institute’s work wasn’t too reprehensible—he could work his way from test subject to security guard.
A place like that surely needed
some
kind of security.
Maybe—finally—his luck had started to change.
The Med Center was in turmoil when Joseph Bach returned to the Obermeyer Institute, with the full staff—six doctors and a dozen nurses—all working hard to keep Nathan Hempford alive.
Stephen Diaz was already back in the gated compound, but Michelle Mackenzie was nowhere to be found.
Bach wasn’t surprised. He knew from the way she’d looked at him as he’d helped her to her feet, that she’d received a full dose of the anguish he’d fired off at tonight’s villain. Stephen, however, hadn’t gotten hit by that particular wrecking ball—he didn’t have the same empathic skills that Mac did.
But that was to be expected. No two Greater-Thans accessed the exact same neural pathways. And even though Stephen and Mac were both rare Fifties—fifty percent integrated and highly advanced—their mental skill-sets were as varied as their eye color, their skin tone, and even the number of freckles upon their faces.
Annie’d had too many freckles to count, with the main concentration running across her sun-kissed cheeks and nose, beneath her sparkling blue eyes.…
Bach had to stop and take a breath, because the magnitude of his loss still made his stomach clench. And while it was true that time healed all wounds, and he’d had plenty of it to work out the guilt and the blame, he hadn’t yet mastered the regret or the soul-crushing
sorrow. So he’d never progressed beyond more than a thick scab, which he usually easily ignored. Tonight, however, he’d intentionally torn it open.
Someone touched his arm, and Bach spun toward the potential threat, only to find Elliot Zerkowski backing away from him fast, hands raised in alarm.
“Whoa,” said the research and support department head. “Whoa, I was just …” But then he moved back in, his concern palpable. “You okay there, Maestro? You’re looking a little pale. How’s your back?”
“My back is fine.” Of course, it twinged, just slightly, at that very moment, but that didn’t make him a liar. A slight echo of discomfort
was
fine. Bach forced a smile as he waved the other man off. He gave a nod to Haley, one of his top research assistants, who looked as if she were thinking about asking if he needed help. She glanced at Elliot, who nodded a reassurance, so she didn’t stop.
“I’m fine,” Bach repeated as Elliot turned to look at him. “But it was a difficult night.”
“I heard. Let’s get you into a room—”
“Not yet,” Bach said. “I still need to—”
“Fall on your face in the hallway? I don’t
think
so. Kyle,” Elliot called to one of the nurses hurrying past them toward the ER, “let the med team know I’m putting Dr. Bach into exam room one. And round up Doctors Diaz and Mackenzie—I want a full on them both tonight.” He turned back to Bach. “I was coming to find you anyway. It’ll be just as easy for me to ask some debrief follow-ups and to give you a sit-rep while we’re checking your vitals.”
Bach didn’t argue, because he knew it had to be done. He’d already filed a preliminary report on his way back to the Institute, but he’d known there’d be additional questions because he’d been purposely vague.
And
he
had some questions, too. “How’s Nathan Hempford?” he asked as he preceded Elliot into room one—just a few convenient steps down the pristine and sterile-looking hall.
“Nuh-uh,” Elliot said. “I go first. You know the drill.”
Bach did. Still, he had to know. “At least you can tell me about his family. Are
they
okay?”
“They’re fine, but you were right about the three-year-old. She has a mild concussion. We’re monitoring that.” Elliot was also monitoring Bach closely, watching to make sure he didn’t do a nosedive as he took off his overcoat and hung it on one of the hooks by the door, kicked off his boots, and stripped down to his T-shirt and shorts—a prerequisite for a full, detailed medical scan.
With Dr. Obermeyer’s cutting-edge technology, it was possible to do what many doctors called a shortcut or
jot
scan—with a patient fully clothed and in motion.
But a full, detailed medical scan required complete stillness from the patient, and as few layers of clothing as possible. It took anywhere from one to three minutes, depending on the hardware—which was remarkably quick, considering the information it provided. Blood pressure, heart rate, EKG, full blood work were the basics. It also provided details on any and all illnesses and injuries, including broken bones and soft tissue damage.
Unlike standard hospital med scanners, the equipment at OI had been programmed to include information that most of the medical community still thought was bunk—like the patient’s current integration levels.
Not that Bach’s levels ever changed.
Still, the medical team here at OI was nothing if not thorough.
“Computer, access EZ,” Elliot verbally activated the comm-station as he watched Bach climb onto the hospital bed and lean back. “Prepare full scan of Dr. Joseph Bach.”