He loaded the Genesis control screens and stared at them, hoping for inspiration. Why had Simmons’ device gone into a loop? He resumed drumming his fingers while he tried to think of the answer, or at least the best path to the answer.
Josh could now monitor for the looping problem and stop it quickly if it happened, but he’d never gotten to the root cause, and he didn’t like that. There was a reason for it; he just hadn’t found it. Was it something specific to Simmons? Could there have been a defect in his particular device? Or would Weston be hit with the looping in due time?
If only he could have evaluated Simmons’ brain tissue in the lab. Now he would never know the exact cause of death. But even in the absence of objective proof, he believed the looping events had damaged critical neurons. The last looping episode likely shattered the weakened brain’s ability to withstand the load, and resulted in what could best be described as a meltdown.
Now he walked a dangerous line. He had to deliberately loop the messages to Weston to keep him from resigning—and walking out of OneMarket with the Genesis device still implanted. But he worried about it falling into an uncontrolled looping pattern, no matter how brief.
He couldn’t allow a repeat of the Simmons disaster, or Harris would stop the whole program. He’d do everything in his power to keep that from happening. Not now—not when he was well on his way to making Genesis capable of bidirectional thought transmission in human subjects.
He’d already made a simple change to the program to not just monitor for uncontrolled looping, but to send a special text message to his cell phone if it occurred. He might have been able to salvage Simmons if he’d been able to abort that last looping episode faster.
Josh tried to think of how he could isolate the cause of the uncontrolled looping, but nothing came to him that he could realistically try. There were so many variables outside the lab, most of which he couldn’t control. For all he knew, Simmons’ microwave could have set it off.
A knock on his office door broke his concentration. “Yeah?” He didn’t bother to hide his irritation.
The door opened and Cleary marched in, looking far more purposeful than he ever recalled seeing him.
“What is it? I’m busy.”
Cleary shut the door behind him. “I need to discuss a patient with you.” He stood in front of Josh’s desk, chin forward, shoulders taut.
“Right now? Can it wait?” Josh wondered what had gotten into Cleary, but not enough to waste time dealing with him.
“Weston came in today.”
“And?” Josh hadn’t seen any sign of looping in Weston. But if Cleary came stomping into his office like this, it might be something more serious than the usual petty crap the drones came in for. He braced himself for the answer.
“Came in with stomach pain so severe he couldn’t concentrate on his work. I’ve ordered tests to rule out appendicitis, but it looks to me, based on examination and interview, that it’s stress and diet-related.” Cleary looked almost triumphant.
So that’s all. Should have known he’d see anything as an indictment against Genesis. “So? Why’re you telling me this?”
“He’s not eating. He’s living on coffee, which I’m sure is setting up the acid bath he has going in his stomach. And why? So he can work up to fourteen hours every day.” Cleary started to pace. “What are we doing to him?”
Josh had never seen Cleary so animated. “Well, they do work long hours here. That’s the corporate culture,” he offered.
“Come on, Tyler! Fourteen hours? Every day? And for how long? When we saw him for the insomnia, he was already doing the work of two—and now they have him covering for Simmons.”
Josh let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, if you have a problem with that, I suggest you talk to his manager. I don’t have any control over his work assignments.”
Cleary stepped closer, his face flushed, and bent down to Josh’s eye level, his hands on the edge of the desk. “You don’t? What did they have you upload when you first implanted him?” He glared at Josh. “And what are you uploading to him now? He acted like there was no problem, no problem at all, with working those hours. He just wanted his stomach to stop hurting so he could keep working himself into the goddamned ground!” He straightened and stepped back a pace.
Josh quickly tried to think of how much to tell Cleary to get him off his back. And how much of that should be the truth. Cleary’s distrust of Genesis didn’t surprise him. He read that easily on day one. But why the sudden vehemence? He must know that his objections were moot as long as Harris was satisfied.
But would Cleary dare tell someone on the outside about the program? Even though he lacked the concrete evidence to be taken seriously, Josh couldn’t take that risk.
“We’re uploading what we need to. Some training information, some motivational thoughts. Ideas to help him decide not to resign like Simmons.”
Cleary’s mouth fell open. “That’s fucking brainwashing! You’ve been brainwashing him! This has to stop.” He began to pace again.
“What do you plan to do about it?” Josh spoke in a low, menacing voice.
Cleary stopped pacing and pointed his finger toward Josh’s face. “That thing has to come out. This has to end.”
“I’m not taking it out.” Josh stood. “And neither are you.”
“I don’t take orders from you.” Cleary’s flush had gone from red to purplish. His lips whitened.
“Well, you take them from Harris, and he won’t authorize it.”
“I don’t give a shit if it’s my last act as an employee here—it’ll be worth it.” Cleary turned to go.
“Just how do you think you’re going to do this?”
Cleary stopped.
Josh continued, “Weston has no memory of the implant, so any mention of it by you is going to sound crazy. Like something a washed-up, demented old quack would say. No one will believe you without proof. And you have none—no documents, no nothing. I control the upload, and I can tell Weston anything I need to.” Josh decided to enhance the truth to cauterize the situation. “Besides, I can monitor his thoughts. I would know if you even tried to approach him about removing his implant. I can upload whatever I need to in order to preserve this project. And I will.”
Cleary froze, the blood draining from his face as he absorbed the implications of what Josh had just said. His mouth moved a little, but no sound came out.
Pleased with Cleary’s reaction, Josh said, “Is there anything else? If not, I have work to do.”
Cleary’s shoulders slumped. Without another word, he left Josh’s office, slamming the door behind him.
Confident that Cleary was no longer a threat, at least in the short term, Josh sat back down. Now he really needed to hurry to implement the bidirectional capability. Just in case Cleary eventually worked up the balls to try something.
CHAPTER 42
Mark set his toothbrush back in its rack and leaned against the edge of the bathroom sink, his weight on his palms. He let out an exhausted sigh and looked up at the mirror. His hair lay dull and lifeless against his head. Dark circles rested in the hollows beneath his eyes. He squinted up at the vanity lights above the mirror. Maybe he’d have Sheila look into replacing them with those full-spectrum bulbs. These made him look like hell, even though his stomach was bothering him a lot less since he’d started taking the antacid.
He shuffled into the bedroom, hoping to avoid yet another fight with Sheila over his hours. He was sick of hearing the same tired argument from her, the same negative thoughts. It had been a very productive day, and he didn’t want to wreck his frame of mind. He just wanted to sleep, so he’d be fresh to finish up some things early tomorrow.
Sheila sat propped up in bed, watching the late news. Her eyes did not leave the television as he entered the room. Mark couldn’t gauge her mood tonight, so he assumed it was more of the same and chose his words carefully.
“Hey, you about ready to turn out the lights?” he asked.
<
br /> “In a minute, can we just finish out the news first?” She clicked up the volume a notch with the remote.
He held back a groan to avoid setting her off. “Okay.” He got into bed and arranged his pillow so he could at least rest a bit while sitting up and indulging her request.
They sat up in bed side by side, in silence, staring at the little television set on the dresser across the room. Grinning newscasters presented the usual parade of corporate scandals, stock market gyrations, great moves in sports, and random acts of murder and mayhem.
Mark stifled a yawn as he furtively glanced at the alarm clock. Fifteen more minutes seemed eternal, but if just watching the news would shut Sheila up, he’d manage it somehow. He adjusted the pillow beneath his back and struggled to stay awake for just a little while longer.
In other news, a man was found dead in his Acacia Park home, apparently more than a week after collapsing and dying in his bedroom. An astute postal worker helped make the discovery when he observed that mail had been piling up in the mailbox.
The police entered the house and found the body of a man in his early 30s. Cause of death is unknown pending autopsy. There were no signs of breaking and entering. There are no known next of kin to notify. The man has been identified as Terry Simmons. He worked for the global trading giant, OneMarket. OneMarket representatives say he recently resigned his position there.
And now here’s Jim Nixon with tomorrow’s forecast—
Sheila clicked off the television with the remote. “Oh my God, isn’t that the guy you used to work with?” She stared at Mark, her mouth gaping in shock.
The name seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t seem to put a face to it. Mark hesitated.
“Yeah, the guy you worked with who resigned. Dead in his house for a week.” Sheila shook her head.
They said he worked for OneMarket. How could Sheila know who I work with better than I do? Mark remained silent as he mentally tried to grab hold of something—anything—familiar about this Terry Simmons.
“How horrible. No one even realized he was dead—his mailman called the cops.” Sheila spoke in a low voice, almost to herself. “He must have had no life at all outside of work, for no one to have missed him. God, that is so pathetic.”
“I…” Mark struggled to recall who Terry Simmons was. Slowly, a vague recollection coalesced as Sheila continued to wonder aloud how someone living a mainstream life could die alone and unnoticed. Terry Simmons, Terry Simmons… A glimpse of a face crossed his mind, then recollection of a voice. The memory was tricky, like trying to grasp smoke floating through the air. Then it solidified.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s him,” said Mark, relieved at finally locating the memory.
Sheila turned to him, hard-eyed. “Is that all you can say? He’s dead! Are you mad at him for leaving you with all the work?”
Mark ignored her barb. “One day he was at work, then he was gone. Reyes said he’d quit that morning. Dead?” He shook his head in disbelief.
Why did it take me so long to remember Terry? I spent most of every day with him for six months.
Sheila kept babbling about Terry’s death, but Mark wasn’t listening. He wrestled with his thoughts; they kept tangling and twisting as he tried to make sense of them. Terry’s sudden and lonely death shook him. He was a young and healthy guy. What did he die of?
But even worse was his terrifying lapse in even remembering who Terry was. He thought back to his forgetting the link and the stress test. What if my mind is coming apart? He shivered, hoping Sheila didn’t notice. “I don’t want to talk about Terry any more right now, OK?” He rolled over and turned out the light to stop the discussion.
And he did not sleep.
CHAPTER 43
Evan leaned back in the padded deck chair and gazed out over the shimmering aqua of his pool. He sipped his coffee and drew in the fresh air like a tonic. He prized sunny mornings like this, when he had a little extra time to enjoy his peaceful, orderly back yard before beginning his workday. His first appointment wasn’t until mid-morning, so he could relax and clear his mind for a while before going in.
He set down his coffee on the patio table, then opened the paper. As usual, the regional rag was splattered with OneMarket stories. Shaking his head, Evan resolved to switch to a national newspaper when his subscription expired. He got enough propaganda at work; he’d just as soon not have his daily news contaminated with it.
Irritated, he flipped through the pages, intending to make short work of his morning read, when a smaller OneMarket story buried deep inside caught his eye. He flattened the paper out on the table and scrutinized it.
Terry Simmons’ dull-eyed headshot, likely from his employee ID, stared up at him from the page. Beside it, a short column of sparsely detailed text indicated that he’d recently left the firm, and was found dead in his house a week later. The article didn’t bother to mention if OneMarket had anything to say about their former employee or his death.
“Dear God, what happened to him?” Evan rushed inside to his office to search for more information.
He sat down at his computer, powered on the monitor, then typed the URL for the local television station’s companion Web site. Nothing on the main page. He clicked the link for local stories, and after some hunting and scrolling, found a more complete version of the story.
Evan quickly read the text, which lingered morbidly on how long it took for anyone to realize Simmons had died. When he was done, he closed his eyes and rubbed them as the details seared into his heart and conscience. How isolated Simmons must have been to die alone, no one noticing for a week. Then he realized the wretched conditions of the discovery had distracted him from the cause of death. He rechecked the article to see if he’d missed something.
Undetermined.
Natural causes couldn’t be ruled out, but they weren’t likely in a man that young and in reasonable health. It didn’t appear to be suicide. And with no signs of breaking and entering, murder didn’t seem likely, either.
Evan leaned back in his chair. The last time Simmons had been in the clinic was for migraines—allegedly. What if the device had been starting to malfunction? The migraines could have been a symptom—or a completely fabricated story for the files. Tyler wouldn’t hesitate to cover up any problems.
Evan realized he didn’t have the evidence to make an airtight conclusion that anyone would believe, but his instinct combined with the slim facts was enough for him. It had to be the device somehow. He’d known all along it was a dangerous experiment, performed on unsuspecting victims. He shouldn’t have been such a toady that he allowed it to happen in the first place. Now it was possible that one man was dead and another in danger because of this thing.
Shaking with rage, Evan stood and went to his filing cabinet. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled out the top drawer and reached for the folder, the one whose tab had worn smooth over the years. He took it to his desk and sat down, preparing himself to open it again. Somehow, it never got easier.
Taking a deep breath, Evan opened the folder and gazed at its contents. He picked up each item, one at a time, his fingers lingering on the paper as he relived each one in rigid sequence.
First came a commendation for his groundbreaking research. Evan read each word again, recreating the rush of accomplishment he’d felt the first time he’d seen the document. He ran his finger along the lengthy list of distinguished scientists who’d received copies. He remembered how invincible he felt when he’d received the award, how he felt that his work had been sanctified by it.
And how it seemed to justify him to do whatever he felt necessary to advance his line of research.
He set the letter face down, then picked up the yellowed newspaper article breaking the story of the deaths. He closed his eyes as he felt the high crumble and disintegrate, just as it had when the deaths were first reported. He felt the barbs of the article from memory, as fresh as the day they were printed. He remembered how he’d tried to coun
ter the accusations at the time, tried to justify the means to an end.
Then he picked up the letter condemning his methods and terminating his position at the research facility. He could argue against public opinion. What did they understand of his research and its potential value to them? But when his peers turned against him…then he knew he’d stepped over the line of morality and forgotten his patients were human beings, not his property to be used as he saw fit.
Evan picked up the last item in the folder: a picture of his ex-wife. As if his dismissal wasn’t enough, the final blow came when she had left him, her eyes cold and hard. She could no longer live with someone who had so disgraced himself, who had allowed himself to slide down an immoral path lined with ego.
After a few more minutes of self-inflicted painful memories, Evan neatly stacked the papers, put them back in the folder, and closed it.
Periodically through the years, he took out the file to remind himself how well he was doing despite having failed so publicly, and having failed those desperate, trusting patients in the cruelest way possible. Through his own ego. So busy trying to push his theory forward that he willingly blinded himself to the side effects that killed.
He knew he didn’t deserve any success at all after the pain he had caused. This time he’d looked at the papers for a different reason: to remind himself just what uncontrolled ego can do, and to strengthen his own resolve to end and expose the Genesis program, regardless of the personal cost. And maybe in making that sacrifice, he could at last truly pay for his prior sins, and in that way achieve a measure of redemption.
CHAPTER 44
The words printed on the pages before him defied comprehension. They weren’t blurred or fuzzy; they simply looked foreign. Mark knew perfectly well how to read, but his concentration was shot to hell this morning. So much work to do, and he couldn’t think straight no matter how hard he tried. He groaned and tossed the papers to the side of his desk.
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