November 14, 2009

Kincaid spoke up again, guessing that it was up to him to be the advocate for the success of this project. “We’re going to need additional resources,” he said, watching Adamson for a reaction. It was not the kind of statement that she generally liked to hear.

“What kind of resources,” Adamson asked coldly.

Kincaid leaned forward on the table and started making notes on his tablet. “The brain specialists we’ve got,” he said. “But we’ll need sensory replacement specialists,” he went on. “And a bionics specialist.”

Adamson seemed surprised by this, but Kincaid continued before she could interrupt.

“And a psychologist.”

“Psychologist?” The Director’s expression of surprise was mirrored by varying degrees by others around the table.

“Yes,” Kincaid nodded matter-of-factly. “As I’m sure I heard someone else say, what we’ve done here is unprecedented, and we cannot deny that the entire process has—and will—have an effect on the subject.”

“Do you have one in mind?” Adamson asked.

Kincaid waved a hand dismissively. He did, in fact, that he specifically wanted to contact, but he kept himself from admitting it to maintain the illusion for Adamson that she was completely in charge of the project. “I’m sure there are several available with the appropriate security clearances,” he said. “But I’d be happy to arrange for one, if you’d like.”

Adamson gave him a cool, appraising look. “We’ll see, Doctor.”

Shrugging, Kincaid settled back into his chair.

“Anything else?”

“Probably,” Kincaid replied casually.

Adamson stared at him. There was no mistaking the annoyance in her gaze.

Kincaid lifted his hands, opening his palms. “Probably,” he repeated. “Right now, I can’t tell you for sure what it is.”

The answer, of course, did not satisfy Adamson, nor had Kincaid expected it to.

“Very well,” Adamson said after a long moment of consideration. “We will proceed . . . cautiously. Very. Cautiously.”

Several heads of those seated around the table nodded in agreement. Kincaid fought back the urge to roll his eyes at their toadyism.

“Dr. Kincaid,” she went on, addressing him directly. “You are now personally responsible for this project.”

Kincaid looked back at her without any change in expression, chiefly because he was trying very hard to suppress a smirk. It had always been his project, whether Adamson had realized it or not.

She seemed to sense that he was holding back something, but could not figure what it might be. “I want daily reports,” she demanded tightly. “Daily.”

“Of course,” Kincaid nodded agreeably. He had planned to keep copious notes anyway. The number of papers and articles that might come out of this work was staggering. His chief problem would be summarizing his findings in such a way that he then did not waste countless hours explaining them to Adamson—assuming that she did actually ever read them.

“Okay gentlemen,” Adamson finally said after an awkward, prolonged silence. “It’s late and we all have other work to do.”

Kincaid rose from his chair, only then noticing that he was the only one to do so. He paused only a moment before completing the action and then leaving the conference room. Once on the other side of the door, he wondered what other business they might be conducting without him in there. He realized then that, in fact, he really did not care. After taking a deep breath that mostly a contented sigh, he headed back downstairs to check on his patient.