Of course, Shane was assuming that fate applied in times of last-ditch desperation.
And he was assuming, too, that OI’s offer wouldn’t be reneged when they finally checked their records and realized that he wasn’t just a former Navy SEAL, he was a blacklisted former SEAL.
Of course, that was kind of like assuming that buying a lottery ticket meant that he was going to win the billion-dollar jackpot.
The subway turnstile accepted his debit card just as a train stopped at the platform with a squeal of brakes. Shane dashed inside the thing just before the doors closed, but rode it only a few stops to Kenmore Square.
Where there was a public comm-station right on the T platform. He’d used it earlier that evening.
It was open—the place was mostly deserted—so he ran his debit card through the payment slot, keyed in his PIN, and selected the five-minute option. Which would cost him—shit—five dollars? He back-keyed and picked three minutes. With only twelve dollars left to his name—nine, now—he’d have to do this fast.
He googled the Obermeyer Institute, cursing himself for spelling it wrong first—he would now forever remember that there were three E’s in Obermeyer. When he finally got it right, he followed the website’s link to their so-called testing program, clicking on a button that said POTENTIALS.
Which was him. The OI had first contacted him via e-mail, letting him know that he was, apparently, something called “a Potential.” Shane had never quite figured out what he potentially was. All he knew was that the OI was an R&D facility. And that some of what they researched for future development required human test subjects.
It was all dot-gov approved, which honestly didn’t mean that much anymore.
Still, they were willing to pay him, which, in his current situation, was all he really needed to know.
A window opened on the screen, showing a beautiful, bucolic hillside on top of which sat a stately and ornate old brownstone building. Old Main, a descriptor beneath proclaimed. It faded neatly into a picture of a more modern building, surrounded by the lushness of flowering bushes in the height of a New England spring. The Library. There were people in that photo—of varying ages, but all attractive. They were dressed mostly in street clothes—everything from jeans to business suits, with even a young woman fully clad in BDUs, down to her boots and cover.
Beneath the ongoing slide show—now a bustling scene of some people holding trays, some sitting at long tables in what had to be the nicest, fanciest mess hall Shane had ever seen in his life—a form appeared. It requested his full name, which he typed in: Shane Michael Laughlin. It burped, then requested his NID—his National ID number. He hesitated only briefly. But really, what did he think? Someone was going to steal his identity and empty out his debit account? Buy half a burger with the nine bucks he had left? He typed in the twenty-digit number and hit enter.
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, w
ho 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.
THREE
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.”
“Computer, access JB-one,” Bach told the computer. “Volume off, please.”
There was no need for the computer to go droning on with his scan results.
“Computer, audio notify,” Elliot said, overriding Bach’s command, “any unusual readings.”
“There won’t be any,” Bach told him.
Elliot gave him a sunny smile. “Getting an official, documented verification of that from your med scan will make me tremendously happy. Now, stay still.”
Bach didn’t. He sat up. “First, just … Tell me if you think Nathan’s got a shot.”
“He does,” Elliot said. “You know that. They all do.”
Of course, that was just Elliot being optimistic. They’d yet to save a single jokering addict here at OI. But one of these days, they’d unlock the mysteries of this devastating drug. Bach knew that Elliot was certain of that.
“Brain damage?” he asked.
“Undetermined.” Elliot paused. “But likely.”
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