November 15, 2009

#

“The most difficult one to provide is sound,” Kincaid said. “Or rather,” he went on, “I should have said ‘voice’.”

“I don’t understand, Doctor,” Adamson responded irritably. Although possibly influenced by his now-indelible annoyance with Adamson, Kincaid was certain that he heard the faintest hint of a whine in the Director’s tone.

“Unlike sight or hearing,” Kincaid explained, “The act of speaking is not a “sense”. Rather, it is a complex series of physical and physiological actions that produce sound from the body in a form that someone else can potentially understand. It’s a means by which one being can communicate with another. It is not,” he concluded with mild emphasis, “required for survival.”

“You seemed to indicate that it was, Doctor.” Adamson’s tone carried both suspicion and warning.

“For the subject’s survival, yes,” Kincaid said.

“I’m not following you, Doctor.” Her gaze fixed him.

To Kincaid, she seemed convinced that he was attempting to confuse her in the hope that she would agree to support whatever proposal he had in mind. That was not exactly the truth; he merely wanted her to understand why he needed additional time and resources to continue the project.

“We need to be able to communicate with us, Director,” Kincaid said. “Even if we manage to find a way to restore sight and/or sound to him, we’ll be able to talk to him, present visual information to him, but that still leaves no way for him to communicate with us.”

Adamson slowly shook head, her tightly-bound knot of hair bouncing slightly. “Doctor,” she began in the tone of some exasperated with a persistently inquisitive child, “surely even you are aware that synthetic speech systems have been around for decades. Certainly you can adapt one of those for this purpose.”

Kincaid shook his head sharply. “Every one of those systems relies on some aspect of body movement,” he explained. “Fingers, lips, jaw muscles, even eyelids,” he said. “He no longer has any of those.” He looked up at Adamson with a questing look. “He will need something like those again someday.”

Adamson’s expression grew stony. “That is out of the question, Doctor,” she said tightly. “I’m already funding this project to an extent far greater than I would like. I have no intention of going one step further, spending one more dollar, than I absolutely must to maintain it.” Her eyes narrowed. “There are other projects besides yours here, Doctor.”

“Of course,” Kincaid agreed reasonably. There was little to be gained, he knew, by arguing with her on this point. “Nonetheless,” he concluded, “I’ll have a proposal on it for you tomorrow.”

Adamson stared at him. He could tell she was reaching a limit with him.

“I actually believe we have just the person to head that part of the project here, in-house,” he went on before Adamson could vent her anger. “I haven’t actually spoken to the man yet, though.”

This last statement seemed to mollify the Director somewhat. The muscles at her jaw seemed to relax and her eyes lost some of their bright shine.

“Very well,” Adamson said. Her voice was calm, but Kincaid could sense that she held her considerable irritation in check. “I look forward to seeing your proposal.”

Kincaid knew the Director’s statement was not an outright lie, but there was little, if any, sincerity behind it.

“If you have nothing else,” Adamson went on. “I do have other work to do.”

“No,” Kincaid responded with a genuine cheeriness, “nothing else right now.”

Adamson nodded, staring evenly at him, clearly waiting for Kincaid to show himself out of her office. Kincaid obliged, but not moving with any particular haste.

Once he was back outside in the office’s reception area, he paused for a moment, allowing himself the faintest of satisfied smiles. He had taken the Director off-guard, and had left her off-balance, probably the ideal combination until he decided what he needed to do next. Humming quietly to himself, he headed back toward his laboratory.

#

“The terms of Jorgensen’s contract are very specific,” Cockburn reminded her.

“Contracts can be broken,” Adamson snapped tightly. Her tone was almost a snarl. “Have the attorneys look at it again.”

“I will,” Cockburn agreed. “But most of them are the same lawyers that Jorgensen used to write up the terms of the contract in the first place.”

Adamson glared at Cockburn and he went silent, turning his eyes back to the tablet in his lap.

A shrill chime sounded on Adamson’s terminal. Looking down at the display, she saw a flashing blue signal. She tapped a key to bring up the detailed information: a Code Blue alert. The location was Jorgensen’s hospital room.

A thin smile formed on Adamson’s lips. With luck, she thought with grim hope, some problems just might take care of themselves.

#

“That’s it?” Kincaid asked. His voice carried notes of both hope and disbelief.

“That’s it,” Gerhardt agreed with a grin, holding up the device for Kincaid to see.

At initial glance, the object that Gerhardt held in his open palm resembled a miniature version of a pit floor filled with sharpened, upright stakes—like something from a special effects model. There were some key differences, of course. The entire assembly was made out of various types of metal and other composite materials. The spikes on it were narrower than toothpicks, but slightly larger in diameter than standard needles, and appeared somewhat flexible. A short series of leads ran from the bottom of the flat platform.

The interface was roughly square, only a few centimeters along a side. The height of the spikes was a bit longer, tapering to a point not quite as fine as a hypodermic needle.

“I only ordered one,” Gerhardt explained. “In case we discover we need modifications, then we won’t have to rework all of them.” There was a definite twinkle in his eyes as he added, “I know how much our charming Director hates to waste money.”

Kincaid managed a smile. He was concerned that they might not be able to acquire any additional interfaces if Adamson chose to further reduce their funding, but he had to concede that Gerhardt’s approach was probably the best one.

“How soon can we test it?”

Gerhardt chuckled. “Not for a little bit yet,” he answered. “Although I gave them our specs, we need to make sure that it really does work with our systems before we start trying to plug it into Nicholas.”

Kincaid nodded, giving a small smile at his own impatience. “Right,” he chucked softly.

Gerhardt was quiet for a moment, as if expecting Kincaid to say something. “Shall we take it down to the lab, then?” he finally asked with a genial laugh.

Kincaid’s smile broadened. He rose from the chair, barely waiting for Gerhardt to do the same.

Gerhardt carefully returned the array to its cushioned location in the case it had arrived in. He closed and latched, lifting it with an apparent lack of effort that told Kincaid that it was as lightweight as it had looked. Gerhardt rose from behind the desk, one hand carry the small aluminum case.

For the first time, he noticed that Gerhardt appeared to favor his left leg. It did not seem noticeable when the man was walking, but was apparent when he sat and stood up. Arthritis? Kincaid wondered. A combat injury of some kind?

The questions faded from his mind as he followed the retired colonel down the corridor, carrying the small case that contained the interface array.

#

Father Michael Crosby let the door close quietly behind him. It was not the first time that he had been called to this institution, nor was it the first time had administered last rites here. He was one of a very small number of priests or other religious personnel who had been granted sufficient security clearance to enter the building. However, he was consciously aware at all times that he was being nominally observed, even if his business suit-clad escort was not in his field of vision at all times.

Although it was both law and custom for the final words between a man and his priest be entirely confidential, he held his doubts whether it was true inside these walls. He had never questioned it, in the end feeling that it was better to maintain the fiction than to try to remove the curtain from it. The position, when he was called for, paid well—very, very well—so Father Crosby assuaged his guilty by contributing a larger percentage than usual of the proceeds toward the works of his parish.

As usual, he saw very little as he walked through the corridors back to the elevators. There, he would descend to the lobby, surrender his badge, sign out, and then proceed to his church to complete the remainder of the ritual. Although still dressed in his cassock, he had already removed his stole, folded it carefully, and placed in the small leather case along with the other implements of his faith. (The case, its contents, and all of its fittings had, of course, been thoroughly searched and inspected when he had arrived.)

Around him, he saw employees dressed either in white laboratory coats embroidered with the institute’s emblem or in traditional business wear. There seemed to be no other mode of dress—at least not on this level of the complex. The laboratory coat wearers were greatly outnumbered by those wearing business suits, although he it did seem as through he noticed many more suits in the corridors now than when he arrived.

It made a certain kind of sense, he supposed. The death of someone as influential as Derek Jorgensen was likely to have a profound effect on both the financial and political aspects of the institute’s dealings. It was solely because of Derek Jorgensen that he had accepted a position of what Jorgensen had bemusedly referred to as his “ticket into heaven”. According to Jorgensen, and as far as Crosby had been able to determine, the institute did not deal in what he only half-humorously thought of the “dark arts”: experimental research involving cloning or fetal tissue.

He had been offered a position as a “religious consultant” at with a similar organization at a fee nearly twenty-five percent higher than what he earned here. It had taken him less time than it did to take a breath to refuse the offer. He was certain that the some other member of the cloth had accepted. As far as Crosby was concerned, that man’s soul was destined for Hell, regardless of his position in whatever church he represented or the purported depth of his faith.

All of this passed through his mind as he moved down the corridor. It left little impression, for his thoughts were filled by something deeper and far more troubling. The boy, he thought. What will become of the boy? This question had consumed him almost since he had arrived, ever since Derek Jorgensen had completed his final confession. The implications of what Jorgensen had revealed were so profound, that they had nearly succeeded in distracting Crosby as he completed the rite.