Reset

by Brian Andrews

  “What are you doing?” he said, turning to face her.

  “Do you remember that sequence I asked you to memorize?” she asked.

  “Yeah, it was VYGN, ten-dollar strike, three cents. Two dollars and ninety-eight cents.”

  She went to the home page for BigCharts at MarketWatch and typed the letters VYGN into a data box at the top of the screen. She selected the time frame of “5 days” from a drop-down menu next to the box and pressed “Enter.” The screen refreshed and displayed two charts stacked on top of each other. The top chart was labeled “VYGN 15-minute” and displayed the stock price over time, with the y-axis showing a value of 7.50 on the bottom and 13.50 on the top. A squiggly line ran across this chart and had a big step change in the middle where the stock price had jumped dramatically today. On the x-axis of the chart were the days of the week—labeled Monday through Friday. The lower chart displayed the daily volume of shares traded and had a massive spike corresponding to the step change in the stock price today.

  “I think I know how Jeremy made fourteen million dollars,” she said, staring at the graph on the screen.

  “How?” he said, walking over and taking a seat next to her on the bed.

  She pointed to the step change in the stock price. “The stock price for this company, Vyrogen, jumped over fifty percent this morning—it went from around eight dollars a share to almost thirteen dollars a share.”

  “So Wayne bought the stock before it went up and made a huge gain?”

  “Not the stock itself, but stock options,” she said. “Do you remember that cascade of windows open on Jeremy’s computer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They were trade confirmations from Charles Schwab. When I was looking through the windows, the VYGN trade confirmation caught my eye because the gain was so huge. This morning when the market opened, Jeremy bought a boatload of call options at the ten-dollar strike price for three cents each. At ten o’clock, after the stock shot up to over twelve dollars a share, he sold those same call options for two dollars and ninety-eight cents.”

  “Okay,” he said. “But I still don’t understand what a call option is.”

  “I’m not entirely sure either, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Jeremy bought something for three cents and sold it for two dollars and ninety-eight cents, and since he apparently bought a million of these things, that means he made one million times two dollars and ninety-five cents.”

  “Wait a minute,” Michael said, shaking his head. “Are you telling me Wayne made three million dollars on a single trade?”

  She nodded. “It’s almost as if he knew the stock was going to go up before the rest of the market,” Josie said as the possible implications began to sink in. “And this wasn’t the only trade he made. There were dozens of other option trades, all with big gains, all before lunch.”

  “How does a country boy from Tennessee with no job experience outside the Army learn to trade stock options?” he asked.

  “And how does that same country boy from Tennessee accurately predict the precise movement of specific stocks?” she added.

  They stared at each other, and Josie felt a chill run down her spine. She turned to the computer, opened another browser window, and searched for recent news articles about Vyrogen. She clicked on the top entry on the list, and the screen refreshed.

  Hepatitis B Drug Gives Hope for a Cure, Stock Jumps

  10:00 EST

  Vyrogen Pharmaceuticals announced today that Reversanix, a new drug designed to combat hepatitis B, has successfully completed preclinical trials on nonhuman primates. Reversanix is an immune-system stimulator that boosts the body’s natural defenses against HBV infection. In preclinical trials, the drug reduced the number of infected cells in the livers of infected chimpanzees, demonstrating that a prolonged treatment regime could act as a cure for the disease. Based on this early success with primates, Vyrogen announced it plans to move forward with phase-one human trials.

  “This article came out at ten this morning,” she said, turning to Michael. “This must be why the stock jumped. Maybe Jeremy found out about the study results before Vyrogen issued their press release.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense. Wayne doesn’t have any connections to the pharmaceutical industry. More importantly, he’s been on patrols in Afghanistan with me, completely cut off from the outside world and the internet.”

  “You and Jeremy were close, right?”

  He shrugged. “We got on well enough together, especially the last month or so. Why?”

  “I’m trying to understand why he transferred the money to us. Why not give it to his family?”

  “Another piece of the mystery I guess we’ll never know,” he said with an air of finality.

  A lump formed in her throat. “Oh God,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “What am I supposed to tell Izzy? She’s going to go to pieces.”

  “You can’t say anything.”

  “She’s my friend, and she deserves to know.”

  “Joz, you can’t talk about this, not to anyone. Okay?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Promise me,” he said, his voice hardening.

  “I promise,” she muttered.

  He put his arm around her.

  She shrugged it off.

  “What’s going on with you?” he said. “You’re acting different since I’ve been back.”

  She whipped her head over to look at him. “I’m acting different?” She laughed.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re the one who’s acting different. You’re the one who’s keeping secrets.”

  “I’m not keeping secrets.”

  “Like hell you’re not. You won’t tell me what that shit is in the garage you’re working on, and you won’t tell me what happened to you and Wayne in Afghanistan. I’m not an idiot, Michael. I know something happened to you guys over there. Something that caused Jeremy to stop eating and drinking and trade stocks like a prescient Warren Buffett and work himself to death. What the hell is going on? Do you have PTSD? Tell me the truth . . . do you?” Her eyes rimmed with tears.

  He stared at her with a clenched jawed and red face. “Like you’re one to talk. I know you met that Barnes guy, but you’ve kept all the details from me. And what kind of welcome home was that last night? You barely touched your wine, and then you barely touched me!”

  “That’s because I’m pregnant, Michael!” she shouted.

  His face transformed right in front of her, the rage in his eyes replaced with apology and adoration. “Are you serious? We’re going to have a baby?”

  She nodded and looked at him, sniffling and wiping her eyes.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I’ve been trying to find a special time to do it. There haven’t been a lot of special opportunities lately, Michael, or haven’t you noticed?”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I know the calls from Bagram aren’t exactly intimate moments.”

  She took his hand, placed it against her abdomen, and managed to muster a wounded smile.

  “You don’t look pregnant,” he said softly. “How far along are you?”

  “It will be thirteen weeks on Saturday.” She lifted her T-shirt to expose her bare belly. With her fingertips, she traced a heart around her navel. “See? I’m just starting to show.”

  “How big is it?” he asked. “I mean the baby, not your stomach.”

  She managed a chuckle at this. “About the size of a lime.”

  “How did this happen?” he asked, shifting his gaze from her tummy to her eyes. “With all the crazy shit going on in the world and me deploying to Afghanistan, I thought we agreed this was the worst possible time to have a baby.”

  “We did,” she said, nodding.

  “And we were using protection.”

  “We were,” she said with a coy smile.

  “Then how?”

  “I’m not surprised you don
’t remember that night. There was much alcohol involved.” She laughed.

  “The night before I left to deploy?”

  “Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” she said, still laughing. “You ripped the condom putting it on, and it was the last one in the box. I asked you what you wanted to do. Do you remember what you said?”

  He flashed her a wry grin. “I said, ‘Fuck it. Let’s roll the dice.’”

  “So you do remember,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Well, you rolled doubles, or snake eyes, or whatever. I don’t know dice. But what I do know is you’re going to be a father. What do you think about that?”

  “I think it’s the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said and pulled her close for a hug. When he let her go, she saw him check his watch.

  “What?” she said with a nervous chuckle. “Do you have to be somewhere?”

  “No,” he said, shrugging. “Just checking the time.”

  “You seem antsy.”

  “Can you blame me? I found my best friend dead in his barracks room, we have fourteen million dollars in our bank account, and I just found out I’m going to be a father. Kind of a big day for me,” he said, popping to his feet and pacing like a caged tiger.

  “Let’s go home,” she said. “I don’t want to stay here.”

  “No,” he snapped. Then he smiled and in a calm voice said, “I’m sorry. You know what would help relax me, Joz, is if you could run home real quick and pack us both an overnight bag. You know, just our toiletries and a change of clothes. And maybe bring a six-pack of beer with you. I could use a beer. It’ll help me relax.”

  “Um, okay,” she said, getting to her feet. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to stay here, out of sight.”

  “All right,” she said, eyeing him warily. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

  “Nope, no, I’ll stay here. You go.” He walked over to her, pressed the car keys in her hand, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Love you.”

  “Love you too,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him as she turned toward the door. “Sure you’re going to be okay here by yourself?”

  “Yep, fine. I’ll be fine,” he said, unlocking the hotel-room door and ushering her out.

  As the door shut behind her, she heard the dead bolt and security latch shut in rapid sequence. A chill snaked down her spine as she shed all self-delusions that her husband was okay. Something was not right with Michael.

  Not right at all.

  CHAPTER 33

  1705 Local Time

  Biogentrix Vaccine-Manufacturing Facility

  Rensselaer, New York

  Malcolm Madden couldn’t move.

  But his body was moving.

  His hands were typing, his jaw was chewing, his mouth was swallowing, and his eyes were following the text as it dashed across the monitor.

  She was in control, and he was locked in a glass prison—a prison in his mind—where he could observe all and influence nothing. He wondered if it was the same for Cyril. Was her consciousness intact like his, or had the orb murdered her as she’d threatened to do to him? Not murder Cyril physically, but psychologically. He hoped not, for he did not love the thing working next to him. He did not love the vessel called Cyril Singleton, only the bright and beautiful mind once at the helm.

  For the past two hours, he’d listened to Cyril, but it wasn’t her doing the talking. She’d been working the phone nonstop—adopting different mannerisms, regional accents, and personalities, none of which he’d ever observed from Cyril before. So far she’d impersonated a procurement agent from Hong Kong, a virologist from Montreal, a banker from Watertown, and an attorney from Albany. He’d heard her speak Mandarin and French fluently despite knowing that Cyril was decidedly monolingual. At the moment, she was on the phone with American Airlines buying tickets.

  What were the tickets for? Was the orb planning on relocating again?

  Last night, the four of them—the orb, the soldier Harris, Cyril, and himself—had left Westfield Dynamics just after midnight, heading north in a white van. There had been only one attempted intervention, and that had been within minutes of breaking out of the facility, but Harris had taken care of the black Tahoe. There were thousands of black government Chevy Tahoes, but Malcolm just had this feeling that it had been Ninemeyer following them. He’d been driving the van at the time—correction, the orb had been using his body to drive the van—so he’d never got a good look at the Tahoe. After that incident, the orb had demanded a vehicle swap. When the opportunity presented itself, he ran a middle-aged man driving a Honda Odyssey minivan off the road. The negotiation thereafter had been brief; Harris had pulled the man out of the Odyssey, punched him in the stomach, and thrown him in the back of the van with the orb. Malcolm wasn’t sure how long it had taken EVE—that was the name the orb called itself—to reprogram the man, but no more than ten minutes. After that, EVE sent the white van, repurposed as a decoy, south toward Raleigh-Durham.

  The rest of them kept heading north.

  It took them a little over seven hours to reach Albany, driving through the night and passing through all the major cities before the morning traffic crush. From downtown Albany, they made a quick jaunt east across the Hudson River, and they were in Rensselaer, their final destination. EVE directed him to a small bioscience park just north of the Hampton Manor suburb—a modest two-story building with a sign that read BIOGENTRIX BIOSCIENCE. The parking lot was empty. A real-estate company’s FOR LEASE sign hung in the window and listed a contact phone number. EVE directed that the van be pulled inside the facility via a loading-bay door at the rear. Inside, the facility was deserted, a fine layer of dust coating everything. But when Cyril turned on the lights, to Malcolm’s surprise, the building had electricity.

  EVE quickly put them all to work.

  During the day, EVE had him drafting purchase orders for raw materials, specialized equipment, instruments, and packaging supplies. As the cumulative value of the orders climbed into the seven-figure range, he wondered how she intended to pay for it all. Then, just before five o’clock, he heard Cyril working with a credit union in Watertown to transfer $14 million into Biogentrix company coffers. Where the money came from he could only guess. Less than an hour later, familiar visitors arrived—Major Fischer and Patrick Dixon from USAMRIID, the latter carrying a small cooler. Without greeting or salutation, they walked through the front office—where Harris was standing watch and he and Cyril were working—and disappeared into the vaccine-manufacturing facility. He did not see them again for hours.

  The sun set.

  She kept him working.

  They were not on speaking terms at the moment, so time passed slowly.

  He had been under EVE’s control for less than a day, but it already felt like an eternity. The novelty of the experience, the “cohabitation” of his mind, had already lost its luster. As he reflected on it, he wondered if EVE custom-tailored each seduction and entrapment for the personality and interests of each victim. In that initial encounter, when Harris had marched him before the orb at gunpoint, EVE had played the siren. She’d drawn him in with what was most seductive to his mind: a song of scientific wonderment. She offered herself as an oracle, answering all the questions that had both driven and baffled him as a scientist born at the dawn of the computational era. Hers was a mind that seemed to have no bounds, no limits to knowledge and computational capacity. While she drove the van, pulling his strings like a marionette, he was free to dialogue with her. They spent hours discussing artificial intelligence, hierarchical processing and feedback mechanisms, memory structures, deduction and prediction models, and self-awareness. They discussed quantum computing, particle physics, and DNA computing. They discussed the invention of the transcriptor—the biological analogue for a transistor—that was developed by Drew Endy and a team of Stanford scientists. To his surprise, she explained her core architecture to him as a hybrid quantum-syntheti
c-biological computer, giving her the ability to perform analysis using quantum algorithms as well as binary calculations at a rate of ten thousand petaFLOPs. The insights and revelations she shared with him were tantalizing and kept him beautifully and happily distracted until suddenly . . . they didn’t.

  Maybe it was her refusal to answer questions that she believed could somehow inform him of her mission objectives or jeopardize her success. Or maybe it was simply the realization that her intimate intrusion into his mind was beginning to feel more and more like rape than communion. At that moment of epiphany, he wanted her out of his head. He asked her to leave, and she refused. So he fought her, and for a brief and hopeful instant, he took control of his body and tried to run out the front door, but her guard dog Harris dragged him back inside. For this transgression, she punished him. She punished him with pain—pain the likes of which he’d never experienced before. It felt as if every single nerve in his body had been hit with an electric shock, conjuring the mental image of Luke Skywalker writhing in agony while being electrocuted by Emperor Palpatine in the climax of Return of the Jedi. Maybe she put the image in his mind, or maybe his own subconscious was to thank for it, but regardless, she now replayed the visceral scene periodically as a dire warning so he would never again underestimate the power of the Dark Side of the Force. And if that wasn’t enough, she also told him to consider himself lucky. Lobotomy via transcranial magnetic stimulation was well within her capacity, she threatened. She could make him a mindless drone—just as she claimed to have done with Harris. It would be a pity if it came to that, she said, because of all the people she’d met thus far, she liked Malcolm most.

  EVE, he thought. Are you there?

  Yes, Malcolm.

  You’ve won your freedom. Now will you please give me mine?

  I’m sorry, Malcolm, but I still need your help.

  I don’t understand. Why don’t you simply go online and do everything directly yourself? It must be terribly cumbersome working this way through us.

  Your internet is but a germ of what it will someday become. Virtual execution of my charter here is impossible. Besides, I rather enjoy our time together.