“Call me Dash,” she said as she shook his hand heartily. “And this is Jam.”
Jam saw a frown cross his face for a moment before the smile came back. Addressing Jam, he asked. “Are you coming with us to talk about telomeres as well?” As Jam laughed at this, another man came down the ladder from the yacht’s wheelhouse. Something about him struck Jam as odd. The only thing she consciously saw that seemed out of place was that he was wearing combat boots instead of deck shoes. Jam spoke a little distractedly. “No telomeres for me today, exciting as that sounds.” She was about to explain that she had to go start her peacekeeping shift when the man in the boots started to loop a loose line around a cleat—a simple loop, not a cleat hitch as she’d learned was proper on her trip across the Pacific. “I have some errands to do.”
The man with the line glared at her, clearly wishing she’d go away. “Who’re you?” he demanded.
“Friend of Dr. Dash. You?”
Jack interrupted. “He’s my crew. Kurt.” After a moment’s pause, he turned. “Anything wrong, Kurt?” Kurt replied gruffly, “Everything’s fine, Mr. Keller.”
Jam’s eyes narrowed. Mr. Keller? A strange lack of courtesy…unless Jack Keller was not really a doctor.
At that moment Kurt turned toward the ladder to go belowdecks. As the breeze ruffled his jacket, Jam saw a bulge outlined at the small of his back. A whiskey flask? A bottle of Love Potion Number 9? Or a pistol?
Something was not right here.
Jack frowned at her; apparently he wished she were gone as well. When Jam showed no inclination to depart, he turned to Dash. “I was going to ask you to come aboard for a cup of real mainland coffee, but we should probably be on our way.” He bowed to Dash and waved his hand toward the nearest passage. “Lead on.”
On impulse Jam said, rather too loudly, “You know, this is a delightfully sunny spot. I believe I shall sit and read a bit.” She strolled to where she could lean her back against a bulkhead, slid down to the deck, pulled her tablet from a pocket, and began to peruse a romance novel.
A couple minutes later Kurt came partway up the ladder and saw her. After a long considering moment he smiled, sort of. “Well, if you're a friend of Dr. Dash and you're gonna hang out here a while, you might as well come aboard. There are more comfortable places you can sit, and I'm making coffee.”
Jam smiled innocently back. “That would be great.” She hated coffee, but she doubted they'd get that far. She rose languidly from the deck and kicked off her shoes. The soles of her sneakers were too soft if she needed to kick, so she hated wearing them in a fight.
Kurt offered a hand to climb aboard and she accepted.
“The galley is beyond the salon.” He gestured down the ladder. “Ladies first.” She went down into the salon, wholly outfitted in lustrous redwood, and took several steps toward the doorway at the far end. As Kurt came down the stairway she raised her right arm; her glittering bracelet of shiny silver disks let her look behind her. “Is the galley that way?” she asked, pointing forward.
He reached the bottom of the ladder and turned. “Huh?” he asked.
She continued to keep her back to him as she walked partway into the galley. “This way?”
“Uh, yeah,” he replied in another brilliant conversational foray.
She watched in the disks as he pulled a delightfully wicked-looking Ka-Bar from beneath his jacket. Very embarrassing. She hadn't spotted the knife; she'd expected him to go for the gun. Well, on the bright side, this would save her a search of the galley, since she was going to need a knife in a few moments anyway.
Kurt leaned forward, bringing the knife up. Jam leaned forward too and kicked back with her heel, very glad indeed she’d ditched the sneakers.
Kurt gave a satisfying grunt as her foot drove into his solar plexus. She spun to chop his throat. This encouraged Kurt to follow up with a guttural cough. There was a sharp snap as she took his knife-hand in hers and broke his wrist against a convenient counter, bringing him to new heights with his virtuoso performance of a scream of pain. The knife clattered to the floor. She removed the gun from the small of his back—a nice Daewoo 9mm, a professional's piece for all that Kurt had not shown much skill. Perhaps he, like her husband, assumed she was easy because she was a woman. “Hmpf,” she grunted. She snatched up the knife and poked him deeper into the galley. “I used to be a Pakistani commando,” she growled angrily. “Why don't people take me seriously?” She reined in her anger and switched to a chattier voice. “They teach us many interesting interrogation techniques in the commandos. I'm sure you'll enjoy learning them. They should be useful in your line of work.”
After sitting him down on the closest chair she swapped the knife for the gun, making sure he could see the barrel pointed at his chest. That would encourage him not to offer her a distraction as she rifled the drawers in search of zip ties. She conveniently found them in the second drawer she opened—big thick ones, no doubt originally intended for Dash.
After zip-tying him to the chair, she swapped the gun for the knife once more and picked up where she’d left off. “You know, since we're not actually aboard the BrainTrust, we are free of their rules and conventions on handling prisoners.” She leaned over, putting her face into his. She smiled for him, letting a slightly crazed excitement light her eyes. “We are on our own to work out our relationship as we see fit.”
Kurt opened his mouth to object, but the serenity of her madness seemed to stop him. She tapped him lightly on the forehead with the flat of the blade, and brought the point to hover over his left eye. “What's that, Kurt? You disagree? What difference do you think your opinion makes?”
Jam knew, of course, that she would be in serious trouble when her bosses found out about this little escapade, especially if they decided she’d gone as crazy as Kurt thought. But after watching Kurt’s expression change, she concluded that she’d accomplished her goal. She knew that he believed that she believed what she’d said. Good enough—now they could talk.
After Kurt had told her everything he knew—a kidnapping attempt on Dash, he didn't know who was paying or why, very disappointing—Jam made a sandwich. “This is very good roast beef,” she remarked conversationally. “You know, on the BrainTrust we don't get roast beef as often as I'd like. It is all about the fish.” She took a bite. “Now, the seafood is good, even excellent, but really, you can only eat so much lobster before you get tired of it.” Kurt, now gagged in addition to being zip-tied, was just staring at her when they heard footsteps. They heard Jack’s voice. “Why don't you come aboard?”
Dash replied shyly, “Ok.”
Jack continued, “We have some really nice roast beef.” Well, Jam thought, less than he thinks.
Dash spoke with caution, “I am afraid I don’t eat beef, Dr. Kelly.”
Jam shook her head. Ooops, a serious faux pas there, Dr. Kelly.
He recovered smoothly. “Of course. We also have fined aged Swiss cheese. We can have a snack before we depart. Kurt?” he yelled. When no response greeted him, he muttered. “Hang on a minute. Let me find him. Kurt!” he called again as he passed through the doorway into the galley and saw Jam.
She swiftly pulled him out of view from the salon and struck him in the throat. This caused him to gurgle, much as Kurt had done earlier. After slamming his head against the bulkhead for good measure, she settled him next to Kurt and zip-tied them together. Jam stepped into the salon with Dash.
“Jam!” Dash cried. “What are you doing still here?”
“Just talking with Kurt. He's a great conversationalist.”
Dash put her hand over her mouth. Jam was thankful she didn’t actually giggle. “Kurt?” Dash repeated in disbelief.
“It surprised me too.”
A hoarse cough came from the other room.
Jam ducked halfway into the galley. “Oh my, that's a mess”. She blocked Dash’s view and pulled out the Ka-Bar. “Dash and I should leave you two to clean this up.” She thrust the knife in Ja
ck’s direction. “What do you think, Dr. Kelly?”
“Go,” he croaked, loudly enough for Dash to hear.
“Great,” Jam said lightly. “Perhaps we'll see you again later.” The knife disappeared once more beneath Jam’s jacket as she turned back to Dash. “There's some considerable cleanup to do in the galley,” Jam explained. “They'll be tied up for a while working out the problem.” She pulled out her cell and typed quickly. “There. Now they’ll get the help they deserve.”
As they stepped off the yacht Jam started to hum, a beautiful bright melody, then as quickly stopped.
Dash noted the abruptness. “You should sing more often. Everyone agrees you have a beautiful voice.”
“I don’t sing,” Jam said repressively. Confessing more than she intended, she continued, “Not since my wedding day.”
They continued to walk away. After a time, Dash frowned in puzzlement.
Jam asked, “What's wrong?”
“Dr. Kelly seemed surprisingly unfamiliar with my work.”
Jam waved it away confidently. “Tongue-tied.”
“You think he was attracted to me?” Dash ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face.
Jam gave her a measuring look. “You are a beautiful woman, in your own excessively cute but very professional way. He is a man. Of course he was attracted to you.”
Dash formed an “Oh” with her mouth. “Goodness. Was he trying to…‘hit me up?’”
“Yes,” Jam agreed. Now her voice took on the satisfied warmth of a purring kitten. “I'm sure that’s just what he was doing.”
***
The Chief Advisor rose from his desk in fury. “What?”
“Goons,” the calm voice said over the phone. “Two of them. Paid to kidnap Dr. Ambarawati.” A pause. “Not up to your usual standards, Mr. Chief Advisor. Shoddy.”
“It wasn’t me!” the Chief Advisor exclaimed. “Who are they?”
“Well, that’s interesting. There was no information on either of them in any of the criminal databases we can access. And they had excellent FDA credentials. They seem to be protected by someone powerful. Perhaps a Chief Advisor?”
“Look, if I were going to kidnap the good doctor, I’d just send a Seal team and be done with it.”
“Aha. Of course.” Another pause. “So you want these kidnappers brought to justice?”
“Of course I do.” The Chief Advisor’s voice grew silky. “Why don’t you send them to me? I promise to prosecute them to the full extent of the law.” And he would, too…after getting as much information on their backers as he could, using interrogation techniques not allowed on the BrainTrust.
“I’ll think about it. If we do send them to you, you’ll let us know what you find out, won’t you?”
“Oh, I can promise you that.”
“Good.” The voice broke the connection.
The Chief Advisor sat back down. Someone was trying to beat him to the punch. He would have to move up his timetable.
Whichever dictator or tyrant or oligarch was trying to horn in on his action would be dealt with. Harshly.
***
Colin put down his cell. “So he’ll send a Seal team, as we expected. He’ll move faster now, though.”
Amanda covered her face with her hands, then slapped the top of his desk. “Colin, you have to stop playing games like this!”
He sighed. “Yes, but perhaps not today. This particular game is now running without us. We can let it sweep us away or we can direct it, but we cannot stop it.” He stared at the picture adorning his office wall. An isle ship floated on surging water with an enormous, contented-looking, sleepy red dragon draped over it. A tiny girl petted the dragon’s tail, which curled down to the sea. Amanda couldn’t see it at the moment, but she knew that in the corner of the painting was a dedication, “For my Dragon.” It was signed, “Elisabeth”. The title of the painting, “Home Defense,” glowed on a gold plate beneath. “Since the day we came aboard GPlex I, we haven’t been able to stop this game.”
“Someday you’re going to get someone hurt. Someone we care about,” Amanda growled.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Probably myself, among others.”
***
Her office was austere. Dash suspected that some prison cells had more elaborate decorations. A picture of her parents sat on her desk. A diminutive jade statue of Ganesha, the Elephant god who served as Remover of Obstacles, god of Wisdom, and Lord of Success rested in the center of a tiny round table. Ping and Jam had announced that she needed more stuff the first time they saw her office, so Ping had supplied her with a pair of swords, a katana and a shorter wakizashi, on a lustrous lacquered black stand. They were now displayed in solitary splendor on her bookcase, which held no books. The bookcase itself was, in Dash’s opinion, an anachronism, but it was well suited to holding a pair of weapons she had no idea how to use.
Jam, more practically, had given her a rich thick rug in tones of red. She’d bought it with her first paycheck from a programmer who was leaving the BrainTrust because his company had IPO’d and he’d made it big. It covered most of the floor beyond Dash’s desk. Sometimes when she was alone, she would slip off her shoes and just walk on the plush pile, curling her toes. Heavenly.
But not today. Today she had the task of interviewing the final patient candidates. Apparently she also had the task of soothing Byron, who stormed into her office in a rage. “What is wrong, Byron? Have all our candidates withdrawn?”
Byron growled. “I just hate them all.” He clenched both fists. “Have you seen the security guards who’ve cordoned off our entire research area? To protect our valued guests, they say. I have to show my badge just to get past them.”
Dash looked questioningly at him. “You hate our patients?”
“All the billionaires. Nobody deserves to have a billion dollars.”
In her head, Dash rifled through the profiles of the candidates. “Carl Kraemer is not a billionaire.”
“No,” he agreed reluctantly. His expression turned to admiration. “Now, he’s a real genius. Wow! It’s a shame they don’t give a Nobel Prize for Mathematics, or he’d have been the winner several times. All our patients should be as worthy as he is.”
“If that was the only way to be worthy, we could not afford worthy patients. The funding for his procedure is being supplied by the BrainTrust Consortium itself.” She paused, and continued in a mystified tone, “I do not understand why, actually. He’s developing a set of equations that describe a radically different way to shape magnetic fields. Interesting enough, I suppose, but what is the purpose?”
Byron took a half step back, affronted. “To further human knowledge, of course. Why would he need any purpose other than that?”
“I guess,” Dash replied doubtfully.
“Meanwhile, the rest of them are money-grubbers who steal from the people.”
Once more Dash sorted through the candidates in her head. “As nearly as I can tell, several of the others made their money by starting new businesses—or even whole new industries—and creating thousands of jobs. In what way is that stealing?”
“Billionaires!” Byron snorted in disgust. “There just shouldn’t be any!”
“So only governments should have billions of dollars?”
“Of course,” said Byron. “Only governments look out for all the people’s welfare.”
Dash was too startled to speak for a moment. She reflected on the endless miseries and thousands of needless deaths the governments of the countries around Bali had inflicted on their people in previous decades. “Your experience of governments is considerably different than mine,” she answered cautiously. Before he could reply, she continued, “Has the first candidate arrived? Ben Wilson?”
Byron nodded. “Yeah, Ventures has arrived. So have Pipelines and VBC—Voter Behavior Correction.”
“Pipelines?”
Byron blushed. “I keep track of them based on what industry they own.”
&n
bsp; “Ah.” Dash was pretty sure none of her prospective patients actually owned the industries they competed in, but it was a very Byron thing to say. “So, Mr. Wilson is Ventures?”
“Yeah.” Byron lowered his voice to a whisper. “You need to be really nice to him.”
Again Dash looked baffled.
“He’s one of your investors.”
“Goodness.” Dash pursed her lips in consternation. “Well, send him in, please.”
***
Ben Wilson had lost virtually all his muscle mass to aging. His arms were shriveled folds of skin, where once he’dhad substance. Overall he was skinny as a rail, except for a paunch. As he seated himself ever so carefully, Dash found herself worrying if he would be able to stand up again. He ran his hand across the remaining strands of his wispy hair.
Dash came straight to the point. “I am told that you are one of our investors, Mr. Wilson.”
A twinkle appeared in his eye. “Ah, you found me out. I am indeed.”
“Did you invest just so you could be a candidate?”
He shook his head. “Certainly not. I’m delighted to be a candidate, but I didn’t really expect it.” He leaned forward in his chair and said conspiratorially, “Shucks, if it’s going to be as dangerous as your huge list of warnings and caveats says, you should probably hold off putting me in the program until you have a replacement angel lined up.” He shrugged. “Of course, as you can see from my condition I could pass away at any time, which would also leave you strapped for cash. Tough call you have there, from a financial perspective.”
Dash maintained her most professional blank face, though a smile tugged at her lips. “I am not worried about the funding, though I suppose I should be. As it happens, you are a perfect candidate from a physical perspective. You suffer from all the classical symptoms of aging without any special diseases or problems.” She looked back at her notes.
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