Zero-G (8 page)

“You want more money, is that it?” Diane's frown deepened, something Garret thought was physically impossible.

“No. The retainer you pay every month is adequate and the five-million-dollar carrot you keep dangling keeps me interested.”

“It also keeps you from milking the 50K retainer we pay, not to mention the massive expenses.”

“If I could have nabbed this guy the first week, I would have. Now, do I leave or stay?”

Silence hung heavy in the room. “Sit down, Mr. Alderman. We don't want to bring in anyone else.” Diane leaned back. “It wouldn't be prudent.”

Garret returned to his seat and reopened the laptop. “I know it's been a rough year for you. Frankly, it's never taken me this long to pin anyone down. Your man is smart. Worse, he's clever and apparently has monetary resources. No one can hide for long without a way of sustaining themselves.”

Garret already knew a lot about his target. The man had been a troubled teenager but showed enough promise to make it into a four-year college, finishing in only two years. He had spent three years in the Navy before his superiors booted him out. Free of the military, he returned to school. Several misdemeanors later, he left with a BS degree in biochemistry.

Alderman had yet to understand what drove the man. For years, he seemed a model citizen working at some of the best research facilities and companies in the country — not as a scientist, his credentials didn't allow that, but as a master technician. He knew how to make the machinery and electronics do what was demanded of it.

Something in the man drove him to do more, and that “more” puzzled Alderman. He had become a “biohacker” — a term that didn't exist ten years ago. What Alderman learned about biohackers from his clients and his own research chilled him.

Biohacking was a new term. Ask a group of a hundred for a definition and maybe one or two would have an answer. Computer hacking was well known; biohacking was almost invisible.

Among biologists and medical researchers, a debate raged. Synthetic biology promised what all edgy science offered: cures for diseases like AIDS, malaria, and more. Synthetic biology researchers based their ideas on engineering principles and thinking. Researchers approached DNA as a mere string of building blocks they could separate and recombine to do new things or — maybe someday — make new creatures. Many believed they could repair genetic disorders and extend life by rearranging genetic matter in ways Nature hadn't. Food products could be improved by such strange engineering processes as taking “antifrost” genes harvested from a squid and mixing them with tomatoes, making them more resistant to cold snaps.

It was brave-new-world thinking at its best, but all such dreams have dark corners where nightmares reside.

Those dark corners chilled any thinking person. Any virus customized to help could be customized to harm. Just like a computer virus spread between computers on a network, so a bioengineered product might spread through a population of humans, weakening or even killing entire communities. A runaway, artificially created organism might not make as much noise or generate as much heat as a nuclear bomb, but the devastation in lives could be several orders more severe.

The kicker for Alderman, the thing that made his blood thicken with cold, was that someone with minimal training could create such things. Just like computer hackers and computer virus creators need not be computer scientists, so a biohacker may have nothing more than a basic college education. An especially bright person might not even need that. All that the would-be terrorist needed was access to a synthesizer.

This guy had the brains; he had the experience; and he had the mental illness to do great harm. He already had.

Linear interlaced his fingers. Garret could see the knuckles whiten. “You said you had a location.”

“I have an area. He's moved across the country. I've had men on his trail from the first week you contacted me. Unfortunately, he had a head start and covered his tracks well.”

“What's changed?”

“I believe our man has taken a job in southern California. He either needs money or . . .”

“Or what?” Diane prompted.

“He's planning on doing it again.”

“How do you know this?” Diane shifted in her seat. The news had made her as uncomfortable as it had made Garret.

“Few work in his specialty. Synthetic biology isn't a crowded field. A skilled technician who knows his way around a DNA sequencer is gold. Companies would hire him for the same reason you did. I've had operatives monitoring companies that have purchased the devices or advertised for the appropriate techs. We've been able to look at some of the applications.”

“How did you arrange that?” Linear narrowed his eyes.

“Don't ask. What you don't know won't land you in jail. Then we got lucky. One of the firms is a new client. That gained us some access to their computers.”

Diane licked her lips like a hungry woman. “What now?”

“Now I fly to southern California and pin this guy's ears back.”

“When do you leave?”

“This afternoon. Oh, and I'll need your corporate jet. Say, three-thirty.”

Ten minutes later, Garret walked into a cool fall afternoon and slipped into the limo that awaited him, knowing that his life had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.

SEVEN

Q
uiet conversation mixed with muted music and the jingle-jangle of silverware and dinner plates. Café Orleans was anything but a café. Not the most expensive restaurant in Houston, it was still a place one went only for special occasions — like a son's birthday party.

The restaurant had been Tuck's choice. He had long since given up on asking the children where they wanted to eat. The very question stoked the fires of sibling rivalry, each trying to outlast the other so they could contradict the first choice. “I want chicken,” would be countered with, “Well, I want pizza.” “You always want pizza.” “So?” Best not to put that flame to the fuel.

Café Orleans would never be the first choice of the children, but they never complained when they ate there. The staff treated the family like royalty, something they did for all the astronauts and key NASA executives. The restaurant, which specialized in New Orleans cuisine, also offered dishes borderline teenagers could enjoy.

A long rack of baby back ribs rested on a plate in front of Tuck. Sharing the plate were collard greens stewed with spicy sausage and grits with cheese. Myra had settled for something more sensible: a plate of pulled pork, roasted corn on the cob, and coleslaw.

Gary ate like a twelve-year-old, moving food down his gullet like a vacuum sucked up dirt.

“Ease up, boy,” Tuck said. “There's more food where that came from.”

“Yeah, slow down, you little freak.” Penny managed to squeeze more annoyed whining into her words than Tuck thought possible.
Fourteen years old, but she is
still a child in so many ways.

“Penny, don't call your brother a freak. It's his birthday. Wait until tomorrow.”

“Daaad.” Gary stopped chewing and tried to look hurt, but he couldn't hide the smile.

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry, birthday boy. Can you forgive your old man?”

“I don't know. You're pretty old.”

“Watch it with the old cracks, bub. I know where you live.”

“Yeah, but will you remember tomorrow?”

Even Penny laughed.

“Okay, wise guy, I have a question for you. We'll see how smart you are. I met a man in San Diego. I never heard of him, but someone said a guy your age would know all about him. His name is Roos, Ted Roos.”

Gary stopped mid chew. “You met Ted Roos? Really? In the flesh?”

“I take it you've heard the name.” Tuck glanced at his wife. She seemed amused.

“Well, duh. He's only the best video game designer on the planet. Tell me you got his autograph. Is that my birthday present? You got Ted Roos's autograph, right?”

Tuck felt ill. He had no idea that Gary would be so enamored. “I'm sorry, Son. I didn't get his autograph.”

“Oh, man. You're kidding. You didn't even ask for his autograph?”

“I didn't know you collected autographs. If I did, I could get signatures from the really famous astronauts and test pilots.”

“It's not the same, Dad. We're talking Ted Roos here.”

“I got his business card; does that help?”

“Maybe. Not much.” Gary's face revealed his disappointment.

“Let me see if I can't make it up to you. I have his number. Maybe I can talk him into mailing an autograph.”

“That'd be great.”

Gary's smile warmed Tuck's heart, but the memory of the conversation with Roos chilled it again. He had not been kind to the man. “I can't make any promises other than to try.”

“I'm still lost,” Myra said. “How did you meet this famous game designer?”

“At the air show. He was waiting for me after my flight. I tried to brush him off, but he was determined we talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“Nothing really. He wants me to retire from the Navy, quit the astronaut corps, and go to work for him.”

“Oh, is that all?” Myra looked puzzled.

“He wants you to design video games?” The look on Gary's face was priceless. “You don't play video games.”

“Sure I do. We just call them something else — like flight simulators.”

“Not the same thing. You don't know anything about video games.”

“He doesn't want me for his video game business, Gary. He wants me to help another company he formed. He's one of those guys who wants to commercialize space.”

“What's that?” Penny interrupted.

“In a nutshell, kid, it's a private company that wants to make money taking tourists into space. Roos wants to send passengers into low-Earth orbit.”

Myra furrowed her brow. “So you'd be an engineer or a consultant?”

“That's right. Well, he also wants me to pilot the craft.”

For a moment, Tuck thought the air conditioner was stuck on high. He watched Myra and the kids exchange glances.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I wasn't interested.” Tuck saw them relax. “I'll admit he has a persuasive way about him. Still, I have my work . . .”

“What?” Myra matched his gaze.

“Nothing. Just something he said.” Tuck waved a dismissive hand.

“And that was . . . ?”

“He said NASA would never let me fly again. Not in space anyway.”

“I hope they don't.”

“Penny!” Myra snapped.

“Well, I don't. It's not fair to us. You know that, Mom.”

“Back up, Penny.” Tuck's words were soft. He touched her hand. “What's on your mind?”

“Your last flight . . . it's not fair to us. Every time you go into space . . . every time you get in that stupid Shuttle . . . it's like dying, Dad. It's like dying. Last year . . . I thought we lost you.” Tears welled in her eyes.

Tuck looked to his wife for support, but she offered none. Gary refused to look at him. “But you didn't lose me, kiddo. I'm still here.”

“This time. The others . . . the others had children too.”

Tuck's heart deflated like a punctured balloon. That fact never left him, haunted him, as did the faces of his dead crew.

Penny rose from the table. “Excuse me.” She walked in the direction of the restrooms, her head down, letting her hair hide her tears from the other patrons. Gary mumbled something and went after her.

“What'd I say?”

Myra shook her head. “It's not what you said, sweetheart; it's the work you do. The last year has been hard on them.”

“They haven't shown it.” Tuck rubbed his eyes.

“Sure they have. You haven't seen it.” Myra's words bore no anger.

“So now I'm insensitive?”

Myra took Tuck's hand. “No. The problem isn't insensitivity. The problem is you're a man. Guys like you don't see the little clues kids give.”

“They're overreacting.”

“No, they're acting like normal kids who love their father — a father who came close to dying a year ago. They don't want to go through that again.”

Myra rose from the table, leaned over Tuck, and kissed him on the forehead. “I'm going to check on them.”

“What should I do?”

“Order cheesecake. Cheesecake fixes everything.”

He was a dark man: dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. His eyes remained fixed on the BMW SUV as it moved down Gessner Street in the Bunker Hill Village area west of Houston. His eyes skipped up to the rearview mirror, then back to the vehicle fifteen yards in front of him.

The SUV fit the upscale neighborhood. The man was glad that he had rented a luxury Lexus. A cheap car would stand out in this neighborhood.

The SUV turned onto Stoney Creek Drive. It wouldn't be long now.