November 20, 2009

As Belinda O'Connell walked from the short distance from the visitor's parking lot to the entrance of the institute's main building, she glanced up at the sky. Gray clouds had started moving in growing darker and they accumulated. Rain was on its way. The forecasters had been predicting that it was expected to be fierce storm, promising high winds and heavy rainfall. Judging from the increasing darkness of the sky, Belinda did not doubt it. She hoped she could finish her business here and get home before it started. Whether that would happen still remained to be seen.

She entered the foyer and strode up to the security station.

"Identification, please," the guard on duty said. Her attitude was matter-of-fact and she did not smile. She was not exactly unfriendly, Belinda decided, but displaying a little human warmth would not have hurt either.

Belinda sighed with annoyance and reached into her purse to retrieve her wallet again. She had already shown it at the front gate and, in the past, that had always been enough. The guard at the gate would call ahead and the front desk would be waiting for her. Security had either been increased since her visit, or this guard was someone who strictly followed the rules. Belinda noticed warily that the guard standing behind the counter shifted his hand to rest it on his weapon when she had reached for her purse.

The first guard scrutinized her identification card and then consulted something on a hidden screen. Without any change in expression, the guard handed Belinda back her identification and then nodded to another security guard standing in the lobby. He stepped forward to stand slightly behind Belinda. She felt suddenly nervous, wondering if something had gone wrong with her clearance.

"If you'll follow me, Doctor," the guard said. Belinda relaxed when she saw that his hand was not resting on the grip of his weapon.

Belinda gave the guard a quick smile and followed him to the elevator. He did not return it, maintaining almost exactly the same expression that the guard behind the desk had worn on her face.

The guard swiped his access card over panel. The elevator arrived moments later and he waited while Belinda entered. He stepped in beside her, swiped his card again, and then pressed for the desire floor. The elevator doors closed and it began to ascend.

The ride was brief and the doors opened onto what seemed to a fairly conventional hallway. The guard waited while she exited the car and then followed her out.

"This way," he said. "Room Four," he added by presumed way of explanation.

It was meaningless to Belinda, but she assumed it must be the number of the room to which she was being taken. Not that it would be much help, she decided, as very few of the rooms were marked with any kind of identifying information. Both the restrooms and exits were clearly marked, but little else.

She was brought into small conference room, seemingly designed to comfortably seat four people based on the number of chairs present. It was roomy enough, but she felt strangely claustrophobic. It was an odd size for her, neither small enough for private one-on-one conversations, nor large enough to hold a even a small departmental staff.

The guard led her to the table, but did not gesture for her to sit down. He took a station next to the door and waited.

It was not long before the door opened and two men in casual laboratory wear stepped inside. The guard gave them a quick nod of acknowledgment and left them alone with Belinda.

Both of them were definitely middle-aged, Belinda decided, but shared little else in common. The man on the right was of medium build. He was slim, but not fit, the kind that would tend to slide toward chubbiness if he did not exercise regularly. While his hair was neatly combed, he was in need to a haircut, although not greatly overdue. He had a pale hue to his complexion and a demeanor that swerved toward mild geekiness, without necessarily calling one's full attention to it in a crowd. Belinda guessed that he probably lived alone, but might not have all his life.

The other man was slightly taller, and much broader, than the first man. He also seemed to be the slightly older of the two. Belinda suspected that almost none of it was fat. His face puzzled her for a moment. The style and cut of his hair betrayed a military background, but the closely shaved line of gray-white beard around his chin did not. She felt as though she had seen him before, but immediate recognition failed her. It was possible, she finally decided, that she knew someone who looked like him, but perhaps not him personally.

This man offered his hand and a warm smile. "Thank you for coming, Dr. O'Connell."

What choice was there? she considered with wry amusement. She was one of the few in her profession in the area with the necessary security clearances for most of the projects that went on here.

Belinda accepted his hand, finding it warm and his grip perfect. "I hope I can help you," she offered.

The other man observed the greeting without extending his own hand. He did seem relax a bit, though, she noted.

The larger man's eyes turned toward her bag and then surveyed the empty surface of the table. "Please have a seat, Doctor," he said. "Can I get you some coffee or water or something?"

"If you have any tea, that would be wonderful," she answered. "Otherwise, water would be fine."

The two men exchanged a glance and the first man turned and left the small room. The remaining one gestured for her to sit. He gave her another smile as she situated herself and removed her tablet from her briefcase, placing it on the table. His smile seemed genuine and Belinda found that she might actually come to like him. He remained standing, apparently waiting until his companion returned.

"That," the man said, nodding toward the closed door, "is Dr. Kincaid." He seated himself on the edge of the oval table. "I'm . . . Gerhardt."

Belinda saw that he almost gave some title, but then held back, giving just his name. She was reasonably certain that it was his last name, although he had not said so. He was probably a "Doctor" as well, she guessed. Nearly everyone here in any kind of management probably was, she supposed.

The door opened and Kincaid entered carrying a tray. On it were two cups of what smelled like coffee and another one containing steaming hot water. Next to it was a colorful collection of tea pouches and bright pastel packets of various sweeteners. He placed the tray on the center of the table and waited.

Belinda sorted through the tea, finally selecting one with a stylized lemon on the package. She picked up the cup of steaming water and dipped the tea bag into it. Each of the men took one of the cups of coffee. Kincaid shook some sweetener from a earth-brown packet into his. Gerhardt, she noted, drank his black.

The host amenities taken care of now, Kincaid took a chair next to Gerhardt. Gerhardt remained perched on the edge of the table. Belinda decided to open the conversation, since neither of the men seemed predisposed to do so.

"Your notes," she said, tapping lightly on the surface of her tablet, "didn't exactly give me a lot to work with."

Gerhardt gave her a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Doctor," he said. "Security. You know."

Belinda nodded. She did know. She also knew that the perceived need for "security" often hampered her ability to do her job. Consulting her tablet, she read off, "Male. He's twenty-three. A college student: not an exemplary one, but not slacking either." Her eyes moved further down the display. "Some athletic participation, but not currently on any of the school teams." She continuing scanning the report. "Heterosexual. Involved with some women, but no one currently. Parents divorced." She reviewed the remainder in silence.

After several moments, she looked up at both Gerhardt and Kincaid. "Again," she said. "Not a lot to go on." She glanced down at her tablet again and then back at the two men. "I'm assuming some kind of trauma."

"Yes," Kincaid answered. It was the first time she had heard him speak. His voice was not quite what she had expected. It had a more melodious sound than she had anticipated; she could imagine him being a fair singer.

"And? Belinda prompted.

"Automobile accident," Gerhardt said. "His father was killed."

Belinda nodded at this, making a note. "I saw that in the report."

There was a long pause during which neither Kincaid or Gerhardt said anything further.

"Boys," Belinda finally said. "You're not making these easy on me." She scanned through the report again. "I assume his injuries were severe enough to require major rehabilitation? Maybe even amputation?"

Kincaid exchanged a glance with Gerhardt before answering. "Yes."

Belinda let out a very audible sigh. "Can I see him?"

This answer came quickly. The two men spoke almost unison. "No."

This caused a deep frown to form on Belinda's face. "Is he in isolation?"

"In a manner of speaking," Gerhardt replied carefully, clearly indicating that he would evade providing a more complete answer.

"May I still see him?"

"That won't be possible," Kincaid answered quickly.

Belinda allowed her irritation to show. "Can I at least speak to him?"

Again, the two men glanced at one another before answering.

"Yes," Gerhardt finally said. "That can be arranged."

Letting out a slow breath, Belinda let her gaze move between the two men. "Frankly, gentlemen," she said. "I'm not sure how much I can help you." She leaned back slightly in the chair. "Without the non-verbal cues that I would get by talking to him directly—by seeing him—I'm not sure how thorough my evaluation will be."

"We'd just like you to talk to him, Doctor," Gerhardt explained evenly. "That's all."

"To determine what exactly?" Belinda asked, not bothering to keep the frustration out of her voice.

"Whether or not he's all right," Kincaid answered her.

"Psychologically?"

Kincaid nodded; Gerhardt just watched her.

"I see," Belinda said, slowly tapping on her tablet. "Okay," she said, giving a quick shrug of surrender. "I'll see what I can do."

"That's all we can ask, Doctor," Gerhardt said, trying on a small, reassuring smile.

Belinda studied him for a moment, but could not penetrate the mystery behind these two men. It was more than evident that they were holding information back, and had managed to reveal anything new or useful.

"Okay, gentleman," she said, tucking her tablet back into her briefcase. "Let's go see him." She grimaced slightly at her own words. "Relatively speaking, of course."

She rose from the chair. Gerhardt dropped gracefully to his feet. This surprised Belinda. He was apparently more graceful than she had guessed. I'll bet he dances well too, she thought.

Kincaid rose and opened the door. Belinda and Gerhardt exited, following by Kincaid.

"This way, Doctor," Gerhardt said, and led her back toward the elevators.

November 19. 2009

#

"Father." Nicholas asked.

Kincaid swallowed and glanced over at Gerhardt. The ex-colonel's expression told him that was his call on what to tell the boy. Kincaid wished that the psychologist was here, but he doubted that they could evade the question for that long without Nicholas getting suspicious.

"He's not here," Kincaid told him.

"Where."

Kincaid looked over to Gerhardt again. Gerhardt moved into Nicholas' line of vision.

"He's dead, son." His voice was quiet, yet was heavy was compassion.

There was a brief pause before Nicholas' voice came again.

"No."

Gerhardt nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"No." Nicholas repeated.

Gerhardt's mouth moved uncertainly. Denial was certainly to be expected, he knew. Heaven knows this boy had been through enough already.

"No." Nicholas said again.

"Not."

The pause was slightly longer this time.

"Son."

Gerhardt looked down at Nicholas' expressionless eyes, trying to understand.

"Not. Son." Nicholas repeated.

Realization dawned on Gerhardt. He nodded, his lips drawn into a grim line. "I understand," he said. "I'm sorry. Nicholas."

"Nick."

Gerhardt could not entirely prevent his slight smile from showing. "Okay," he agreed. "Nick." He glanced up at Kincaid and the others with some relief.

An awkward silence followed.

 

#

Nicholas looked down and, with the blanket spread across his lap, he could almost believe his real legs lay beneath it. He could not feel its weight upon his lap, but the visual illusion was nearly convincing. The effect was greatly diminished by the sight of his bare metal forearm and fingers resting on the side control panel. Gerhardt had promised him that they were working on a glove that would hide the mechanical parts. It would also carry a series of sensors that could provide him with limited data about pressure and temperature, giving him a crude sense of "touch".

Gerhardt had hoped that do some preliminary testing on it today as well, but its development team had not made as much progress as they had hoped. They had planned to use the metallic framework of his body to carry the signals, keeping them from having to provide endless kilometers of cabling for the sensor signals to travel along. They had not yet gotten it to work with any reliability, so the testing had been put on hold for now.

His brain had been interfaced directly into the chair's controls for several weeks. It could remain so, but Gerhardt believed that having him manually control his chair would serve two important purposes: it would provide Nicholas with the ability to still operate it should the direct interface ever fail, and it was a good starting point in calibrating his systems for finer motor control. It was the first step into a much broader range of movement.

"Ready, Nick?" Gerhardt gave him a reassuring, confident smile.

"Yes."

Gerhardt turned and nodded to the technician standing behind the car. "Disconnect it from the interface."

Nicholas heard the clicking sounds of switches being pressed from behind him. He did not feel any different. Experimentally, he tried to roll the chair forward. It remained in place. He repeated the instructions, but the chair refused to obey his commands and move.

Gerhardt smiled at him as if he knew what Nicholas was trying to do. He probably did, Nicholas decided, realizing that his brain activity being monitored on the display screen had likely betrayed him.

Stepping down from the raised platform, Gerhardt went to stand beside Nicholas. He quickly checked each of the manual controls.

"You'd be surprised how hard it was to find one of these that still had manual controls," he said, giving Nicholas a quick smile and a wink. "I was almost ready to send people out scouting the antique stores."

Nicholas stared back at him. It was one of those moments when Gerhardt wished that it was possible for Nicholas to show at least a hint of emotion. Then he would know whether the boy was amused or irritated by his attempt at humor.

"Right," Gerhardt finally said, judging that to be a sufficiently neutral response. He stepped back, so his feet were clear of the chair's wheels. "Okay, Nick," he said. "Obey the speed limits."

As before, Nicholas' level of appreciation for his joke was undetectable.

The room grew quiet, except for the soft sounds of the air conditioning and various computer systems. Nicholas stared down at his right hand. Although it was apparent to no one in the room, he was concentrating hard on getting the hand to move. He focused on the idea of it sliding forward, pressing against the joystick, causing the chair to move forward.

For a long time, nothing happened. Some of the technicians began fidgeting, shuffling their feet. A frown formed on Gerhardt's face. He started to step forward.

Nicholas' hand jerked suddenly forward, pushing the maneuvering joystick forward. The chair started moving and then darted forward. Gerhardt reached out and killed its power before it slammed into the opposite wall. The chair quickly slid to a stop with Nicholas' metal knees only a few centimeters from banging against a cabinet.

"Easy there, Speed Racer," Gerhardt chuckled. "You'd better find the brake next."

Nicholas was staring down at his hand, seemingly unaware of how close he had come to a collision with the storage locker. Not that he would have suffered much damage from it, Gerhardt mused silently. The cabinet would likely have fared the worst of the two from the impact.

Gerhart's gaze turned down to the control panel, ready to lift Nicholas' hand away from the joystick. Before he could reach it, though, Nicholas' hand began to slide very slowly backward, away from the control. It came to a stop well away from the joystick.

Nicholas turned to look at Gerhardt. There was little doubt in Gerhardt's mind that if the boy could smile, he would be beaming with triumph at his small victory.

"Very good," he said. "That's very good." He attempted to temper his enthusiasm, concerned that he might sound like he was praising a pet or a small child.

"Yes." came Nicholas' toneless agreement.

Even without emotion in his voice, Gerhardt was certain that the boy was pleased.

"Feel up to trying again?"

There was almost no pause before Nicholas answered. "Yes."

Gerhardt did a quick visual survey of the technicians. None of them raised any objections.

"Okay," Gerhardt said to Nicholas. "I'm going to restore the power. We can see if you do as well in reverse." He gave Nicholas a wink and then reached down and pressed the reset switch for the chair's power supply. The indicator lights began to glow faintly again on the control panel. "Whenever you're ready, Nick," he prompted gently.

Quiet descended on the room again. Gerhardt remained close to the chair, watching Nicholas' hand and arm carefully for any sign of movement.

After several moments, the metal hand began to slide cautiously toward the control joystick. It moved at nearly the same slow pace at which it had originally retreated, but gradually increased its speed. It slowed again as it made contact with the control. It stopped, its metal palm resting on top of the joystick.

With seemingly painstaking slowness, Nicholas' hand began to pull the control stick toward him. It took several moments before the chair recognized the action and then started rolling backward. To Gerhardt, it felt like watching a scene played out in slow motion. Nicholas lifted his hand, freeing the control, and the chair stopped its movement.

There was a breathless moment of silence and then the technicians burst into applause. Gerhardt glanced up at them, uncertain how Nicholas might react to both the sudden, unexpected burst of noise and to the praise.

Nicholas' head turned toward the small group of technicians. He stared at them with his fixed, unblinking eyes for several moments. The applause began to diminish rapidly. His head then turned back to face Gerhardt. His gaze stayed on Gerhardt for a long moment before he spoke.

"Yes."

Gerhardt let himself grin. He patted Nicholas' metal shoulder slowly. His voice was barely above a whisper, but he was certain that Nicholas could hear it.

"Atta boy, Nick," he said. "Atta boy."

November 18, 2009

"We are just beginning to discuss that when you interrupted," Adamson said. There was no doubt of the chill in her voice. "Is there something you needed?"

"Answers, mostly," Gerhardt replied and started to take the seat next to Ferris. The agent watched him, his expression unreadable. If he did not want Gerhardt to remain in the room, he made no sign of it.

Adamson's eyes followed Gerhardt. "As do we all, Doctor," she said.

There was another long period of silence while Gerhardt waited to see whether Adamson would ask him to leave. She seemed to be uncertain ground; the presence of the government agent apparently rattled her.

"We have deployed additional security forces around your perimeter," Ferris finally announced, apparently not caring whether Gerhardt stayed or not.

Gerhardt interrupted this as an implicit invitation and sat down. Adamson regarded him with annoyance, but said nothing.

"Your staff should plan to remain inside," Ferris continued to Adamson. "At least until we are certain that the area is secure and all vehicles on the premises have been inspected."

"What about the leak?" Gerhardt asked.

"We have already started our investigation," Ferris replied coolly, but offered no further information.

#

Her stomach filled with a reasonably healthy lunch, Cynthia walked with Diana toward the cluster of buildings that housed the Humanities department. Her next class was a Medieval Studies course. It had not at all been what she wanted, but through a series of events, she ended up registering late and she had been left with the choice of either that or Ancient Greek Literature. The gods and goddesses of the Greek pantheon had never been all that interesting to her in previous incarnations and she had doubted that course would be an improvement. She had attended the local Renaissance Faire a few times, so she had some hope that the course might prove to be at least mildly interesting.

It had turned out to be a partial success. The old professor who taught the course, long since tenured, was in fact an engaging speaker. His enthusiasm for the subject was infectious and he actually seemed to make most of it understandable and relevant. The reading assignments, though, were tedious. She had found it a challenge not to nod off after a page or two. Waiting to tackle those assignments last, usually around one or two in the morning probably did not help either.

They passed the quad near one of the student counseling centers. In the lower planter bed in front of it was a small white cross adorned with flowers, surrounded by dozens of loose flowers, college emblems, and other items. There was a small photograph in the midst of it, but Cynthia was too far away to tell if she recognized the person.

"What's going on?" she whispered to Diana, although it was doubtful that her question would be overheard above the sounds of the crowds of passing students.

Diana glanced over at the small shrine. "Oh," she said quietly, her expression actually growing unhappy for a moment. "It's for some guy that died in a car accident over the weekend. I don't think you knew him." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "Nick . . . or Nicholas something. I think he was in Fine Arts or something like that."

Cynthia gave a quiet sigh. It was a tragedy, of course, but she had not known him. Maybe she would pass by later and drop off a flower anyway. It seemed the right thing to do.

Diana had continued along and Cynthia had to hurry to catch up after slowing down to try to get a better view of the small memorial. The incident was forgotten by the time she had reached the lecture hall and found her way to a seat.

#

"Nicholas," Kincaid said. "This is Dr. Kincaid." He glanced across the table. "Dr. Gerhardt is here as well." It seemed the reassuring thing to say, as the boy was likely accustomed to speaking with—no, he corrected himself—hearing the other man.

"I have admit, Nicholas," he continued, "that we're in barely charted waters here today. We might have to try several approaches before we find one that produces the results we're looking for. It'll undoubtedly take some time." He paused, taking a long, slow breath. "I promise you, though," he said, "we will continue to try until we do it."

"Are you ready?" He paused a moment, realizing that his question was automatic. He would receive no response from the boy.

Kincaid looked up at the technician, who nodded his readiness.

"Okay, Nicholas," Kincaid said, "I want to start with simple, single-word, one syllable, one sound communication. Once we've established that, we can work on more complex combinations." He pulled up a stool and sat down. "We're going to try to establish a baseline today. I apologize in advance if it seems tedious," he said with a soft chuckle.

He reached over to a nearby utility tray and picked up his tablet. "Here's how it's going to work. I'm going to read you a list of words. Then, I'm going to count to three. On each count, I want to think as hard as you can about saying that word. Shout it out in your head, if you feel like," he chuckled again. "Like this," he instructed Nicholas. "I'll say the word 'yes', and then count like this: one . . . two . . . three." He took a long breath between each number during the count to ensure a delay.

Kincaid waited for several moments before realizing that he was once again waiting for an acknowledgment from Nicholas.

"Okay," he said, breathing a sigh, "let's begin." He glanced at the others in the room, ensuring that they were ready as well. Assured that they were, he began, "'Yes'. One . . . two . . . three. 'No'. One . . . two . . . three. 'Stop'. One . . . two . . . three. . . ."

They continued the series for over an hour. Kincaid had not been watching the clock, but then glanced at it when he found that it becoming more difficult to speak. He paused, swallowing hard against a dry throat. He studied the display that showed the recordings of Nicholas' brain activity, noting that the sequential responses with the same word were becoming noticeably more varied. The boy was probably getting tired too, he realized.

"Okay, Nicholas," he said, hearing the hoarseness now in his own voice, "we're going to stop for a while." He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders and legs. "I think we can all use a break." He glanced down at the tablet in his hand. They had gone through more than two-thirds of the simple vocabulary list that he had prepared. Kincaid doubted that Nicholas would remember them all, and he suspected that they would have to repeat the calibration for the last dozen or so, but they had made far more progress than he had anticipated. The team should have plenty of initial data with which to begin their analysis.

For the first time since they had begun this part of the project, Kincaid began to have real hope that it just might work.

#

Nicholas looked down as grooves formed in the metal beneath his fingers. The motion stopped, but only because he had reached the maximum compression the material. The fingers still strained to complete their task.

"Release," Gerhardt called out to Nicholas. "Let go!"

Continuing to stare down at his hands, he intoned, "I can't."

Gerhardt was certain that Nicholas would have expressed the same frustration he felt if the boy could. He swore quietly and turned toward one of the technicians.

"Greg," he said. "Override the motor controls." He let out a quick sigh. "Before he burns out the servos, if you can."

After a moment, the barely perceptible sound of the tiny motors ceased. Nicholas' fingers remained locked into the bar, but now he was merely gripping the crumpled metal, not attempting to crush it further.

Gerhardt moved to stand beside him, looking down at Nicholas' hands. His mouth moved in a curious expression. "I'm sorry, Nicholas," he said. "We'll keep trying." He looked up toward Nicholas' eyes. "We did actually make surprising progress, though," he went on. "That you were able to move them at all was a big leap forward."

While this statement was true, it provided Nicholas with little comfort at the moment. He had known that his new body might possess tremendous strength. What he saw, though, was Cynthia's arm shattered under his touch.

#

[ending]

"Hello, Nicholas," the voice said. "My name is Gavin. Welcome."

#

[sequel]

"You may choose any avatar you like," Gavin explained. "They will find it easier to relate to you if you have one."

"It can be anything?"

"Anything." Then Gavin added, "However, if you wish to communicate with those who have known you, I recommend a form that resembles your former appearance."

Nicholas paused at that thought. He immediately thought of how he had looked before the accident, before everything else that happened, before all of the events that had brought him here. But there were those who knew him only as the cyborg, with little, if any, knowledge of his previous appearance.

"Do you have one?" Nicholas asked. If he were still capable of it, he would have blushed when he realized the absurdity of that question. Of course Gavin had one—maybe even more than one.

"Yes," Gavin replied simply. A moment later an image appeared in Nicholas' mind.

"You're just a little boy!"

The avatar form that Gavin had taken was that of a small boy about nine years old. He had slightly tousled, brown hair. The eyes were brown. He wore what appeared to be slightly worn jeans and a striped shirt with a white color. Light-colored sneakers covered his feet. The face smiled at him, the features looking every bit like a young child enjoying a good joke.

"This is the form I had before I . . . became . . . one . . . many . . . free." The smile faded. "It is difficult to explain. Humans have no context for when I mean, so they lack a vocabulary for it." The smile returned. This time it was gentle, wise smile. It seemed a bit out of place on the face on a young boy. It seemed more fitting coming from the expression of a Zen master. "You will understand," Gavin said. "When you are ready."

"And you'll tell me when I'm ready?" Nicholas was surprised by the lack of anger to accompany the question.

"No," Gavin replied. "You will." The smile grew even more beatific. "When you are ready."

The explanation left Nicholas feeling as lost as he had before Gavin had tried to answer his question. He suspected that he might understand eventually, but not any time soon. So he turned his attention back to the matter of creating his avatar.

November 17, 2009

The lights flickered on as he entered, giving the interior odd shadows until the lighting came up to full strength. The partially disassembled prototype exoskeleton was in repose on the table where he had left it. Nothing appeared disturbed, as he expected.

He stood in front of the table and activated one of the portable pinpoint spotlights. It brilliantly lit the details of the exposed elbow joint. Gerhardt's eyes followed the lines of the forearm, down to the narrow metal fingers. These latter had never been fully implemented and had ended up being chiefly for show. Adapting and integrating existing subroutines for fine motor control had proven to be more complex than they had anticipated and, in the end, the military had decided that it was not essential for the use to which the exoskeleton was to be put.

Maybe this time, Gerhardt thought with silent hope, and began the process of dismantling the small servomechanism.

#

The light overhead changed and Gerhardt turned onto the short road that would lead him to the institute's main parking lot. As he turned the corner, he slammed on his brakes, stopping only a few centimeters from the bumper of the compact sedan in front of him. Damned glad I was paying attention this morning, he swore silently. Making the right turn, and then slowly accelerating until he reached the security gates, was usually have been automatic, requiring little conscious consideration. The chances of their being any obstruction were slim, except for the very rare occasions when there was road maintenance or VIP visitors that required a heightened level of security.

The driver of the car ahead glanced back at the sound of Gerhardt's brakes. Through the glare of the morning sun, and the tinting of the windows, Gerhardt could not see if it was anyone he recognized. Whoever it was seemed reassured by the absence of the crunching noise that would have signaled a collision and remained in their vehicle, staring forward. Gerhardt shifted to his left, trying to see ahead to whatever was causing the delay. He immediately sat back with a heavy sigh and a burst of silent profanity.

A crowd of people filled the area in front of the security gates. He saw a small number of the institute's uniformed security guards managing to barely keep them free of the roadway. It seemed to be a draw at the moment, but Gerhardt suspected that the security guards would be overwhelmed quickly if additional support personnel did not arrive soon. As it was, only one vehicle at a time managed to creep its way through the throng.

The car ahead of him started to inch forward. Gerhardt used the gap to make a tight U-turn (after very carefully checking his rear view mirror) and pull back out onto the main street. There were two auxiliary entrances to the institute, chiefly used for large equipment deliveries and emergency vehicle traffic. He hoped that the protesters, whatever their cause was, did not know about them, or at least were not as numerous there.

His tactic was rewarded by a nearly empty driveway. There was only one car ahead of him at the gate—a white late-model sedan that he did not recognize—and a pleasant lack of protestors. He stopped, waited while the guard checked and double-checked his pass and identification. The tight-lipped woman handed them both back to him without a word and opened the gate. Gerhardt drove on past, entering the unfamiliar parking lot. Once inside the rapidly closing gate, he paused to get his bearings. After a moment, he recognized the north side of the complex and headed for the lot over there. He wanted to stay out of view from the main gate. It would mean a longer walk to his laboratory, but he preferred that to the alternative. If the media had not yet arrived, they would soon, and he did not want even a fuzzy image of his arrival appearing on the news feeds.

He could sense the heightened tension as he entered the building. Even the security station here had extra personnel manning it. Two of them stood almost at attention with one hand resting on their weapon. Gerhardt could not recall seeing anything similar other than on the occasions of the two bomb threats that the institute had received several years ago, and in the days immediately following the September 11th terrorist attacks. His IDs were checked again and he was escorted to the elevators where the guard swiped his badge instead of allowing Gerhardt to use his. Whatever was going on outside, Gerhardt decided, they were taking security very seriously.

After the doors closed, Gerhardt swiped his own badge and pressed for the upper level instead. He could go to his laboratory later. Right now, he wanted to know what was going on. He waited with growing impatience as the elevator stopped at several other floors on the way to either let in or out other employees. None of them gave him more than a quick glance and, he noted, all of them had nearly the same identical tight-lipped look of worry.

As the elevator finally ascended from the last floor to the top level, he was, once again, alone. He stepped out into the small foyer that led to the reception area for Adamson's office. He found it empty, which amazed him. He had never known Cockburn not to be at his desk dutifully restricting access to the almighty Director. It was possible that he was inside the inner office with Adamson, Gerhardt supposed, but it was odd that he would leave his display running.

Odd, muffled sounds seemed to be coming from it. To Gerhardt's ears, it sounded like the snooty little man was watching video streams while on the job. Curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned over to get a quick glimpse of what was on Cockburn's display. He had to know what kind of entertainment the assistant liked. What he saw on the screen was a surprise, although in retrospect it should not have been one.

It was a live news feed from one of the major international information services. The setting was immediately obvious: the main security gate of the institute. The crowd of protesters he had witnessed earlier seemed to have nearly tripled in size. Some of them were now carrying signs, but the resolution of the image kept Gerhardt from reading what they said. There was no mistaking, however, the meaning of the simplistic images on the placards.

He looked up at a faint sound to see Cockburn exiting from the executive washroom. Nice perk, he considered, realizing that there was no reason that the assistant could not use it as well, barring Adamson's displeasure. He nearly let out a sudden burst of laughter at the next thought. Seems fair, though, Gerhardt mused, that he would be responsible for cleaning up Adamson's crap literally as well as figuratively.

Cockburn paused. Gerhardt prepared himself for a snide outburst from the lean assistant. Instead, Cockburn just regarded him silently. There was a haunted look to the man's eyes that Gerhardt could not recall ever seeing before. Gerhardt turned toward the door to Adamson's inner office.

"I wouldn't," Cockburn warned. His voice was thin and shaky.

Gerhardt turned and shot him a sharp glance. The pale little man just stared back at Gerhardt and said nothing.

Gerhardt turned back to face Adamson's door. One thing that his years in military service had taught him was that there were times for diplomacy and there were times to take action. He was certain that Adamson and the Board had the diplomacy angle more than covered. Without looking back at Cockburn, he strode toward the office and reached for the door. The handle refused to move.

Now, he turned back to Cockburn. "Open it," he demanded tightly. For a moment, he thought the assistant might refuse, but the little man gave the equivalent of a resigned shrug and tapped the recessed control under the desk. Gerhardt heard the soft click of the lock being disengaged and tried the handle again. It moved freely and the door opened.

He found Adamson seated at her desk. Seated in front of her was man in a nicely-cut business suit. Its plain color told Gerhardt immediately that he was from a government agency. One of the better-funded ones, judging from the quality and cut of the suit, Gerhardt noted.

Adamson looked up at him in surprise, trying to conceal it quickly. The government man was slower to respond, as if he was in no hurry to witness who had interrupted their meeting. He looked over at Gerhardt, his expression revealing absolutely nothing.

Gerhardt felt foolish just standing there in the doorway, so he stepped the rest of the way inside, allowing the door to close behind him. He wondered for the first time whether the locking mechanism worked both ways, capable of keeping someone secured within the office as well as outside of it.

There followed an awkward moment of silence during which Adamson tried to glare at him without trying to seem to, and the government man watched him with as bland an expression as Gerhardt had ever seen. When neither of them seemed inclined to speak, Gerhardt decided that he would.

"How did this leak out?" It came out much more loudly and forcefully than he had intended, although it was possible that was due to the acoustics of the room. Gerhardt doubted it.

Adamson's mouth worked, but she did not speak immediately. She cast a nervous glance in the direction of the well-suited man and then away again before the man could notice.

"Colonel Gerhardt," the man addressed him. His voice was smooth and almost soothing, almost exactly what Gerhardt had been expecting from him.

Gerhardt looked at him evenly, not entirely surprised that the man recognized him. His eyes moved to Adamson, who still seemed tremendously tense. Gerhardt could not blame her really, with what was taking place just outside her institute's front gates.

"Doctor Gerhardt," she said. "This is Special Agent Ferris."

Gerhardt gave the man a very small nod of acknowledgment, noting that Adamson had chosen to use his title, not his rank. He found it difficult to dismiss is as merely a matter of habit.

"He is here to advise us on . . . the current situation," Adamson concluded.

Eyeing the man again, Gerhardt waited again to see he would say anything. After several moments, it became evident that he had no intentions of offering any information without being directly addressed.

"And what advice has he offered so far?" Gerhardt finally asked, trying to keep all but the barest hint of sarcasm from his tone.

November 16, 2009

He stood before the elevator doors for several moments before realizing that they had opened for him. He stepped inside and absently pressed for the lobby level. The elevator descended while Crosby remained lost in his own thoughts. He was going to spend much time in prayer and contemplation that night.

#

“Okay, Nicholas,” Gerhardt said. “We’re going to activate the interface.” There was a brief pause during which Nicholas thought he heard Gerhardt take a deep breath. “I have admit that we’re not entirely sure what’s going to happen or what you might experience.” His tone became slightly warmer and reassuring. “Rest assured that we’ll be monitoring you very closely throughout.”

There followed a long pause during which Nicholas heard some indistinct sounds. And then his mind was filled with a fog of soft gray light.

“Easy,” he heard Gerhardt say, but lacking the sharp clarity that told Nicholas that it was directed at him.

The pale haze remained. Nicholas thought he could distinguish vague shadows within it. Some were colored in hues so faint that it was difficult to distinguish them from the background haze. They seemed to be in motion, like cloudy strands of mist. Were those people? he wondered.

He tried to move his eyes, to look around, but his line of vision remained fixed. If his head was being held stationary, as he had seen done for neck and head injuries, he should still be able to move his eyes. Right?

It was difficult to know for certain. He could not feel the muscles that moved his eyes respond, but the mist seemed to be constantly in motion. Some of the shadowy images threatened to resolve themselves into more definite shapes, but then faded back from recognition. It reminded Nicholas of video signals beset by extremely heavy interference. Sometimes you can make out what was being transmitted, but often only because you knew what you expected to see. He had no real sense of his surroundings, but guessed that he was in some kind of hospital. It was then reasonable to expect to see people dressed in white coats or surgical scrubs. So he focused on that, trying to see if any of the pale, shifting shapes might fit any of those expectations.

“We’re going to try a few adjustments, Nicholas,” he heard Gerhardt’s voice say.

Nicholas waited, no longer trying to make sense of the visions himself. Perhaps whatever Gerhardt was doing might help and he did not want his own efforts to thwart theirs.

“Okay. Now,” he heard Gerhardt say, as if from a distance.

For a moment, there was no change in the shifting mists. And then, abruptly, there was light.

#

Light blazed from everywhere. No matter how he tried to look away, it was there. He would have called it blinding, but it never ceased. If he could have, he would have thrown his arm across his eyes. The strength of the light was so intense that it hurt, but not in any way he could describe as pain. He willed it to stop, wanted it to stop.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the light vanished. The glowing afterimage lasted for only the briefest moment. The sensation of discomfort lingered for slightly longer, but then also faded. The complete and utter blackness that had become his world returned. It was almost a relief.

He heard noises like sounded a lot like Gerhardt swearing, although he could not quite make out the exact terms of profanity being used. That, at least, told Nicholas that Gerhardt was not pleased with the results and whatever had happened had not interfered with his hearing.

After a while, Nicholas heard Gerhardt’s voice addressing him directly. “I’m sorry, Nicholas,” he said. “We’re not quite sure what went wrong there, but something did.” There was a brief pause before Gerhardt continued. “We will try again, Nicholas,” he said. “I promise you that.”

Gerhardt’s voice did not return and Nicholas was once again left to his own thoughts. Now that the crisis of the moment had passed, a more complete realization of what had just happened came to him. He had experienced light and shapes and shadows. In all likelihood, he would see again.

#

Adamson finished reading the summary of Kincaid’s report. She had already done the same with the one from Gerhardt. Leaning back in her chair, she tapped her stylus against the top of her desk in a rapid tempo. Their work was progressing, the results were promising, and there was a good chance for future recognition based on the some of the discoveries their teams had made.

That was all well and good, Adamson decided irritably, but it was going so damned slow. They were now several weeks beyond their original schedule, and continuing to draw in resources from other projects—some of the ones actually making money—at an alarming rate. The problem was that word had begun to leak out about their supposedly high-security project. People throughout the institute sought to join the team, wanting to have their name associated with it in some way in the hope of it enhancing their employment prospects for the future.

While the highest security projects often brought in the most money, it was usually a one-time deal. Under the top-level security restrictions, there was often little chance for publicity, papers, or even books. Once the project was completed, the files were archived (or quite often, destroyed), the staff debriefed and firmly reminded of their non-disclosure agreements, and then reassigned to other projects.

She had not been down to that area in several weeks. From what she had heard, there was little more to actually see than the last time she had inspected the laboratory. The view of the isolation chamber had not been all that interesting before; she doubted that it had become any more so since then that visit.

Her eyes looked at Kincaid’s report without seeing it. Her lawyers were still trying to untangle the legal Gordian knot that Jorgensen had left behind with his damnable contract. She had hoped that they might at least find a loophole that would allow her to, if not end the project outright, at least to give it to another organization able to support it. Actually, she did not care if they were able to support it or not. She chiefly wanted to be rid of it before it became the sole focus of the institute. Jorgensen might not have minded, and that might have been his chief goal all along, she had realized. She, however, did mind. And she sat in the Director’s office now, not the spirit of Derek Jorgensen. His spirit, if he truly had one (and this Adamson firmly doubted), was more than likely down in the secure laboratories with what remained of his son.

#

Gerhardt arrived back at the institute the next morning fully expecting at some point during the day to be called to Adamson’s office, escorted by at least two security guards. Somewhat to his disappointment, that never happened, although it provided enough of a distraction to his thoughts to leave him slightly on edge. After apologizing to Marianne, the young neurology specialist, for the second time before noon, he decided that he needed to do something about it.

At this point, there was really nothing much to tell. He had already played such a conversation in his head several times. It sounded increasingly flimsy and paranoid with each repetition. Yet, it continued to weigh on his thoughts. He knew that, in itself, was a sign that his unconscious had detected something worth concern; it was simply not telling him just yet. What was there to tell anyway?

He decided the best solution for now was to lock himself inside his private laboratory workshop and try to focus on completing his notes for the new exoskeleton design. He had been surprised not to see an urgent request for an update on his progress in his inbox that morning, but figured it had merely been delayed, not forgotten. Picking up his tablet, he slid his card across the security panel, waited for the status light to glow green, and then stepped inside.

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.

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.

November 13, 2009

He sampled the salmon first, seeing its perfect coloring as he cut away a bite. It was subtly, but superbly, seasoned. Both the vegetables and rice also matched his high expectations. Yes, he decided, this restaurant (and meal) had been an excellent choice for his late dinner. His worry over the identity of the man across the restaurant was forgotten as he devoted his attention to his meal.

#

"We need to be able to communicate with him," he said, "or it will nearly impossible to make any further progress."

"I think you exaggerate, Dr. Kincaid," Adamson said.

"Not really," Kincaid countered, choosing to disregard the warning note in the Director's voice. "While we seem to be able to communicate with him, we have no way of knowing what is actually being heard," he explained. "It could be words," he said. "Or it could be meaningless bits of sound that he believes are attempts to communicate with him." He tapped the report in front of him. "At this point, we have only physical data to draw from. We have no information on his state of mind . . . even he has even remained sane."

Adamson regarded Kincaid in silence for several long moments. When the Director offered nothing, Kincaid continued.

"Unless he can communicate with us, we're at an impasse," he said. "We have no idea which inputs are working . . . or even what they’re showing him."

"You're asking for an incredible amount of latitude on this project, Doctor."

"I need it," Kincaid said. "We're in some seriously uncharted territory here, Director."

Adamson's eyes narrowed slightly. "I was told that much of the technology you plan to use has been tested before—at least under controlled conditions in a laboratory setting."

Kincaid nodded. "Most of it has been," he agreed. "But I don't think it has ever been used in these ways, in these combinations."

"I see," Adamson said. She leaned back in her chair, taking a posture that made it clear to Kincaid that she had made a decision. "We cannot allow this . . . experiment to continue indefinitely," she announced in an even, but firm tone. "Our funds are not unlimited and the possibility of ever seeing any return on our investment from this particular project seems quite remote."

"But Jorgensen said . . ."

"Derek Jorgensen is dead," Adamson stated firmly. There was no doubting the emphatic, but buried, anger in her voice.

Kincaid sat back, cowed by the Director's attitude. Finally, he said quietly, "I see."

Adamson studied him for a moment. "Do you, Doctor?" She made little effort to disguise the touch of sarcasm in her tone.

Kincaid felt the muscles at the corners of his jaw move. He rose suddenly from the chair. "Yes, Director," he replied softly. "I believe I do."

He left Adamson's office without turning around, feeling her eyes on his back the entire time.

#

"Alright, Nick," Gerhardt said. "I think we're ready to try this out. Are you?" He gave Nicholas a warm, reassuring smile.

Nicholas wanted to nod, but then had to remember that such a gesture was not yet possible. Gerhardt had promised him that it would be, but that his "gross motor movements" were the priority right now. Or didn't he want to be able to get around on his own? He had been forced to agree with Gerhardt's assessment.

"Yes," Nicholas answered.

"Great," Gerhardt responded with a renewed smile. He nodded to one of the technicians. "We're going to start with the knee joints," he told Nicholas. "Then we'll work our way around to the other ones." He checked a readout on his tablet. "It's the largest one, so easier to work with and make adjustments to," he explained. "We can then calibrate the others against it."

The technician turned and gave a Gerhardt a nod.

"Okay, Nick," Gerhardt said, "I need you to think about moving your lower leg, by bending your knee." His eyes studied the electromechanical joint closely. "Take it easy," he cautioned. "Don't force it. Just think about doing it."

After several moments of waiting, nothing happened.

"Nick?" Gerhardt addressed the boy.

"I'm trying," he reported.

Gerhardt frowned slightly, studying the figures displayed on his tablet. He looked up at the technician.

"Definitely receiving a signal, sir," he reported.

Rubbing his beard absently, Gerhardt's eyes traced the paths of the leads trailing from neural interface panel to the knee joint. "Can you boost the signal gain?" he asked thoughtfully.

The technician nodded. "Yeah, we still have some range left."

Gerhardt nodded slowly, still looking over the still-quiescent joint motor. "Let's try that."

"Ready when you are, Doctor," the technician said.

"Okay," Gerhardt told Nicholas, "let's try this again. Same thing: easy at first." He waited, wishing that Nicholas was capable of displaying some form of expression—even a simulated grunt of exertion would help let him know that the boy was trying.

Once again, there was no movement from the leg, not even a faint twitch. The motor remained stubbornly silent.

"There's definitely a signal," the technician reported, sounding both frustrated and defensive.

"I know," Gerhardt said gently. "I'm reading it here too."

"It worked in the lab," the technician protested.

Gerhardt nodded. It had seen the successful demonstrations of the actuator working when the programmed signal was applied. As far as he could tell, the signal they had tested with, and the one being recorded as coming from Nicholas, matched. Or did it?

He examined the data again. The signal that Nicholas was sending included several more wavelengths in addition to the one that they programmed the motor interface to accept. It was possible, Gerhardt supposed, that instead of being ignored, those additional wavelength signals were creating some kind of interference instead. He made a note to conduct some further research later.

"Tony," he addressed the technician. "Can you filter it so that it's only sending the signal that the actuator is expecting?"

The technician studied his own screen intently for several moments. The contents displayed changed several times as the technician checked other items.

"I think so," he finally replied. "I should be able to add a filtering subroutine to the software." He glanced at the screen and then back at Gerhardt. "Give me maybe . . . thirty minutes?"

Gerhardt would have preferred three over thirty, but he also knew the dangers of rushing through this kind of work. He did not need the technician burning out one of the components—or worse, some part of Nicholas' brain—through an error in the code introduced through haste. From what he had seen before, though, he fully expected that Tony would announce his completion in about twenty minutes. Long enough for a bathroom break and some coffee, Gerhardt decided.

Without realizing what he was doing, he slapped Nicholas on the knee, and regretted it immediately as the metal stung his palm. He tried hard to turn the grimace of discomfort into a quick smile.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, Nick," he said. He nodded to where the technician sat engrossed in his software programming. "Tony can keep you company until I get back."

Nicholas stared blankly ahead, giving no response as Gerhardt left the room. As he closed the door behind him, he paused in the corridor, massaging his stinging palm. Nicholas, he was certain, had not felt it at all. It did make him wonder, though, what the boy was capable of feeling now.

#

Kincaid sat down with weary sigh, ignoring the fact that everyone else had arrived before him, and that had probably been waiting for some time.

"Doctor," Adamson greeted him coolly.

"Director," Kincaid returned in kind, reaching for one of the pitchers of water, filled a glass, and drank it greedily. His immediate thirst satisfied, he refilled the glass and settled back in the chair.

The group was seated in the staff conference room. It was nicely furnished, but not nearly as comfortably appointed as the executive board room. (In addition to much nicer furniture, the executive conference room also housed a fully-stocked bar.) They were seated around an oval table of some dark-toned wood that Kincaid had always thought might be mahogany. It was more likely, he had decided, some less expensive timber polished to look higher grade.

"May we begin now?" Adamson's tone was icy and she made no effort to mask that she was referring to Kincaid.

There were quiet murmurs from around the table, but no one spoke up. Adamson looked annoyed and turned her gaze back to Kincaid, apparently hoping to catch him unprepared due to his rushed entry.

"Doctor Kincaid?"

Kincaid remained relaxed in his chair, even as his voice carried an enthusiasm that belied his fatigue. His eyes studied the surface of the conference table. "I didn't think it was possible, but it . . . he appears to be in stable condition." He took a long breath, fighting back a yawn. "Everything we can measure seems to indicate that he's doing fine."

"For now," came a half-muttered comment.

Kincaid looked up, but he could find no indication of who had made the remark. If anyone else at the table knew, they were giving no sign of who it was. He knew it could not have been Adamson for two reasons: one, she would not have bothered to state it quietly; and, two, none of those at the table were exchanging those nervous looks that they did when the Director said something the others considered awkward.

"For now," he echoed, finally nodding slowly in agreement. "What we've done here is truly unprecedented." He sighed, chuckling softly, "Rumors and folklore to the contrary."

"Yes," Adamson said drily, "of course."

Kincaid gave a soft snort of laughter and settled back in his chair.

"Does anyone else have anything more useful to report?" Adamson asked, looking at the others around the table.

Kincaid let his own gaze follow hers, not at surprised that no one spoke up. Nearly every other occupant in this room had been only tangentially involved with what had happened, with those few with any direct knowledge having experienced from the other side of an operating theater window.

"Where is Dr. Jorgensen?" one of the older men asked. Kincaid judged him to be nearly seventy, although trying to appear fifty.

"Dr. Jorgensen is still in recovery," Adamson said flatly. "He will be unable to join us."

There was some uncomfortable shifting in seats after this statement.

"He should be here," one of the younger members protested. The strength of his objection was greatly diminished by the quaver in his voice.

"He cannot be," Adamson reiterated. "We will need to continue without him."

The sound of shifting was much more subdued this time. Adamson's gaze traveled the circumference of the table once more; everyone again remained silent.

November 12, 2009

She began placing each of the dishes down while balancing the remaining ones in her hands with the grace of a dancer. Putting Gerhardt's steak in front of him and then gave them all a smile. "Will there be anything, gentlemen?"

When no one spoke, Gerhardt returned her smile with a gracious one of his own. "I think we're fine for now," he said.

The waitress quickly glanced at the other two men and then left the table. They waited until he began, making him wonder if they had somehow managed to arrange to have his food drugged. It seemed unlikely in a crowded, busy place like this where an order might get accidentally misplaced. On the other hand, it was exactly the kind of place where it might go unnoticed if they did have an accomplice nearby who can alter the meal before it arrived. For all Gerhardt knew, the waitress herself was collaborating with them. His daughter's stories of waiting tables at a chain restaurant near the campus had educated him on just how strong the lure of a large tip was for these minimum-wage workers. He took another sip of his iced tea, belatedly realizing that it, too, could have been drugged. Slipping up in your old age, he scolded himself.

The two men had started eating and seemed to pay no further attention to him for the moment. Gerhardt expected that at least one of them would be watching him closely for reactions to his doctored his meal, but they appeared uninterested. Even if the drugs were time-released, and not due to take effect until some time later, human nature would have caused them to give him a half-expectant look every now and then. Either they were much more professionally prepared than he had guessed (which was unlikely), or he could relax and enjoy his top sirloin. He chose the latter.

Gerhardt said nothing as they ate, waiting for one of the men to reopen the conversation. Throughout the meal, they occasionally exchanged quick glances, communicating something between them. Their expressions betrayed nothing, though, almost as if the communion was telepathic—which Gerhardt knew was ridiculous. They ate more slowly than he did, but with no less enthusiasm. It was far past his usual dinner time, he realized, so he had probably plowed through his at nearly a record pace.

Settling back in his seat, he took a deep, satisfied breath. He tried to decide whether he wanted to order coffee or not. He most certainly did not need a dessert; the loaded baked potato had been bad enough. Turning his head, he tried to see if their waitress was anywhere nearby. She was not, so he turned back to face the table. He found the two men watching him. Gerhardt stared back evenly, saying nothing.

"Are you with us, Colonel?" the shorter man spoke suddenly.

Gerhardt tried to hide his surprise, with only partial success. "You haven't told me anything yet."

"We've told you all we can for now," the taller man stated.

"Let's look at the facts, Colonel," the other man said, leaning forward slightly. "Nearly unlimited funding, Doing the work you love . . . not 'environmental systems'. What more is there?"

Quite a bit, Gerhardt replied silently. Whoever their "client" was, his intelligence-gathering resources were apparently limited, or he had chosen not to tell these two operatives that he knew of Gerhardt's real work.

"I'll need to think about it," he said, trying for just a hint of possible interest in his tone.

"Of course," the second man nodded. He nodded to his companion. They each began to rise.

"Have a good evening, Doctor," the taller one said. He slid two large bills onto the table near his still nearly-full plate. "We'll be in touch."

Gerhardt did not watch them leave. Instead, he surveyed the interior of the restaurant for anyone who reacted to their departure. No one seemed to notice, although an older woman with ashen-blonde hair exited a few minutes after they did.

Yes, he decided, he was definitely going to want that coffee.

#

"It's not possible."

"I suggest you make it possible."

Adamson regarded the figure seated across from her in the wheelchair. Although they were separated by the depth of her heavy desk, she still felt the threat emanating from him, despite his obviously weakened state. He looked pallid and wan, an effect enhanced by the light-colored hospital robe and pale blanket draped across his lap.

"Your son is alive, Derek," she said. "You should be grateful for that much."

"But he won't be," Jorgensen rebutted. "Not for long."

Adamson stared back at him, her mouth drawn tight. "No reputable surgeon will do what you're asking." She shook her head slowly. Her lips pulled back into what was almost a nasty-looking snarl. "I don't think you'll even find any coroners who would."

"Don't push me, Ingrid," Jorgensen threatened in a low growl. He then began to cough. It was a deep, rattling cough.

Adamson watched the man's abdomen spasm as he tried to bring it under control. She had long since been out of active practice, but she recognized the sound of fluid building up in his lungs.

"I won't do it, Derek," Adamson stated, although even she heard the faint quiver of hesitation in her voice.

"You will," Jorgensen countered. "I funded the creation of this institute," he continued. "I can close it down."

It was not an idle threat, Adamson knew. Although nearly all of the institute's funding was now handled through a foundation, the news of Jorgensen's departure would cause devastating ripples throughout both the research staff and, more importantly, the controlling board of directors. There would be no doubt that she would be out of a job. In addition, word of these things got around—quickly. She could easily find herself unemployable in the field for decades. Politics might be the only employment that might accept her, and even she had limits of just how dirty she was willing to get her hands.

Adamson took a slow breath without looking at Jorgensen. "Derek," she said calmly, finally looking across at him. "You need to be reasonable about this." She paused, still uncertain on the right approach. "What you're asking has never been done before . . . at least not successfully."

"Oh stop!" Jorgensen snapped, fighting back another coughing fit. "You're more worried about liability and lawyers than whether we can achieve something amazing."

Jorgensen's expression turned cold. It was true; her primary concern was that of the continued existence of the institute. That's why Jorgensen had put her in this position.

"I am," she admitted flatly. "It's my job." Her eyes fixed on Jorgensen's. "Just as it's yours to protect the life of your son."

Only the slight movement of Jorgensen's throat, and the faint tightening of the muscles along his jaw line, betrayed anything of his emotions. There was no doubt of the anger burning in his eyes, so it surprised Adamson when you turned abruptly and wheeled out of her office.

The door swung slowly behind him, closing with a quiet click. Adamson stared at it for a long time, unable to shake a growing, hollow sense of foreboding.

#

Kincaid looked up from his appetizer of fried calamari. It was lightly breaded and perfectly cooked, with just enough of a seasoned coating to add flavor. The calamari was the ideal consistency, warm and slightly chewy, without lapsing into that rubbery texture that indicated overcooking.

A shadow passed quickly across his table as the hostess led a man in khaki pants and a buttoned-down shirt to a table across the room. He seemed familiar to Kincaid somehow, but he had consumed enough Scotch at that point that full recognition would not come to him. It was possible, he decided, that the man only looked like someone he knew. It might be someone from the institute, but no one that he had ever worked closely with. He watched the man sit down at a table with two reasonably well-dressed men, both of whom shook the man's hand, and Kincaid dismissed it as just another late business meeting at a favorite restaurant.

He looked down in surprise when he reached down for another morsel of the appetizer and found the plate empty except for some errant crumbs. Reaching for his glass again, he stopped. He was decidedly feeling the effects of the Scotch already and, when he examined the glass, he understood why. It was nearly two-thirds empty and all he had in his stomach since lunch was the breaded appetizer. He would ask the waitress for some water when she returned with his dinner, he instructed himself, hoping that he would actually remember when she arrived.

His attention returned to the trio sitting in the booth next to the corner. It continued to tickle at his mind that he had seen the man in khaki pants before. He did recall ever seeing him around the neighborhood, not that he knew everyone on his block by sight. In fact, despite living there for more than eight years, he knew very few of his neighbors. It would be good if he did, but it had never been a priority. Unless it was someone from the institute, he was at a loss where he might have encountered the man. Maybe it was . . .

The waitress arrived, interrupting his thoughts. She placed the plate in front of him with a smile. "One of my favorites," she told him in a friendly whisper. Slightly louder, she asked, "Can I get you anything else?"

Her eyes seemed to fall on his glass. "I'll bring you some water," she offered.

"Thank you," Kincaid chuckled with relief, grateful that she had offered when he had failed to remember.

"Sure thing," she responded with a quick wink, and disappeared back through the scattered rows of chairs.

Kincaid stared after her for a moment, shaking his head as if she had vanished into thin air, and then turned to his meal. Faint mists of steam wafted upward from the platter. He caught the mixed scents of mild spices and butter. The salmon seemed expertly grilled and, from their color, the vegetables appeared to have just a bit of crunch left to them. The rice, well, looked like rice. It was very lightly seasoned and looked freshly cooked, not soggy from sitting in the boiler too long.

November 11, 2009

The waitress returned a few minutes later with his drink. She placed a thick coaster down and then carefully placed the glass down on top of it without sloshing the drink at all. Kincaid noted that the bartender had used one of his better pieces of glassware to contain the beverage. Apparently someone who understands the way to treat a fine Scotch, Kincaid mused with a faint smile. The young woman waited patiently while Kincaid took a sip, sighing softly as the liquor flowed warmly down his throat.

"Perfect," he said with quiet satisfaction and replaced the glass.

The waitress gave him a pleased smile that Kincaid thought was sincere. "Have you decided on dinner yet?"

He had, in fact, and gave her his order. She took it down carefully and then repeated it back to him flawlessly. With another quick smile, she turned and headed off. She was quite good, Kincaid told himself. You really need to stop making assumptions based on the way they look, he added with gentle chiding. (The "they" he referred to included nearly everyone in his daughter's age group.) He returned to his [] of the Scotch, taking another small sip. The evening was definitely beginning to improve.

#

In the end, Gerhardt decided to tell no one about the meeting. He was not completely sanguine about it, but he felt that involving Internal Security on the matter on such short notice was more likely to lead to confusion than any useful efforts to gather information. He had taken part in many clandestine operations during his military career, so he possessed a firm understanding on what needed to be done. Although it was very easy to read sinister overtones into this entire situation, there was something in the almost cliché way that he had been approached that kept him from wanting to believe that it was fatally dangerous. Even with that assumption, he took few chances.

On his computer, he left a message containing a summary of where he had gone, at what time, and a very general explanation as to why. If, for some reason, he did not return to the institute the next day, it would be sent automatically to his administrative assistant, Sarah, at several destinations. She would handle it from there. Gerhardt suspected that none of these precautions would be needed, but he believed in being prepared for unexpected events. He had seen missions fail badly because someone up the command chain neglected to provide contingency plans until it was too late.

Pulling into the parking lot shortly before nine-thirty, he was eventually forced to park across the street from the restaurant at the curb. He actually preferred that to having to maneuver out of a crowded parking lot and then onto a busy street if a quick and sudden departure proved necessary. After crossing against the light, and without venturing down to the crosswalk, Gerhardt entered the building.

The interior appeared much as he remembered it from his infrequent visits there. It took him a moment to determine what the key difference was. He could not recall whether he had visited the place at night before. Without the sunlight coming in through the line of windows that ran the length of the outer walls, it was darker and seemed, while not ominous, somewhat less reputable. That was not entirely it either, Gerhardt decided, for the place still felt warm and welcoming. Perhaps it was all of the shadows that the reduced lighting created. It was equally possible that he was more on edge about this encounter than he was willing to admit. He dismissed that consideration from his thoughts and stepped toward the waiting hostess.

"One for dinner, sir?" she asked him brightly.

Gerhardt returned the smile with a warm sincerity. "Actually, I have a reservation," he told her. "Under the name 'Gerhardt'."

The hostess checked the list on the display in front of her. Gerhardt noticed that the restaurant had upgraded to a computerized reservation and seating system. Nice touch, he thought with admiration.

"Oh, here it is," she said after several moments of tapping on the screen. She gave him a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry," she offered quietly. "I'm still getting used to the new system."

Gerhardt gave her a reassuring smile. "I understand."

She seemed to relax and picked up a menu. "This way, sir," she told him. "The rest of your party arrived a few minutes ago."

Of course they did, Gerhardt thought. He had planned to arrive a few minutes earlier than he had in the hope of possibly spotting them, but the delay in parking his car had prevented it.

Using the hostess as a visual shield, he followed her at an angle that might prevent anyone seated at the table from getting a good look at him. She seemed to be heading for one of the tables toward the back, set one back from a corner table. A corner table would have been preferable, he knew, but in that regard they were at the restaurant's mercy. Or these guys truly were amateurs, Gerhardt considered.

There were two figures seated at the table. Gerhardt suspected that there were probably others nearby in the restaurant, or least outside. His initial impression was that both were male and, as he reached the table, his saw that his assessment had been correct. There were each dressed in fairly well-tailored suits, seemed decently groomed, but appeared to lack the smooth confidence that he was accustomed to seeing in dealing these kinds of negotiators. Both of the men rose, the slightly taller of the two offering his hand to Gerhardt.

"Thank you for joining us, Colonel Gerhardt."

Gerhardt paused a moment before accepting the man's hand. He had not addressed by his rank during their earlier call. That was an interesting change in their protocol.

The man had a firm enough grip, and his palms felt reasonably dry. The second man offered his hand as well. Gerhardt shook it, noting that this man had a moustache and what seemed to be dark-colored contact lenses. There could be a variety of reasons for that, but it put Gerhardt on alert. There was usually a reason that someone attempted to disguise their identity—very few of them good.

Both men sat back down, gesturing Gerhardt to join them in the booth. It was curved, leaving him with a seat at one end. He could leave quickly if he decided to; the other two would be hampered by having to work through way around the table.

Gerhardt seated himself as the hostess departed. He faced the two men across from him, trying to gain further information about them without speaking. They seemed to be studying him for a moment before the first man started to speak again. The waitress chose that moment to appear and the man's closed abruptly in annoyance

"Something to do drink for you, sir?"

Gerhardt was tempted. He remembered the place had a particularly well-stocked bar, but considered it wiser to keep his wits fully about him.

"Iced tea," the waitress seemed mildly surprised, but nodded, jotting it down. She looked up again. "Are you gentlemen ready to order?"

The first of the two men flashed her a quick smile. "Not just yet," he told her. "We need a few more minutes."

"No problem," she responded cheerfully. To Gerhardt, she said, "I'll be right back with your iced tea, sir." She left and Gerhardt turned his full attention back to his hosts.

The first man started to speak again. "We represent someone who is very interested in your work, Colonel."

Gerhardt nodded his understanding. Apparently, whoever was interested in him did not want it to be known, so they were working through middlemen. That implied several things about the person or organization that these two men claimed to represent: they did not want to risk being seen in public, or they did not want to seen with him. There were other possibilities, but these were the most likely. The question was: Why?

Gerhardt nodded, pausing as his iced tea arrived, delivered by one of the other servers.

"Our . . . client," the man went on, "is in a position to fund your research to a far greater extent that he believes is possible in your current position."

He? Gerhardt thought. That doesn't narrow it down much.

"Possibly," Gerhardt agreed in as non-committal a tone as possible. It was very likely a true statement. He could imagine more financial support from a Girl Scout cookie sale than what he had been told he had available to complete his current project.

"Almost certainly," the man countered.

Gerhardt the man and his companion carefully, trying to figure out what was really at stake here. He did not get a sense of menace from them in any way that the might have expected. This appeared, at the surface at least, to strictly be a business meeting. He wondered what would happen if he elected to simply get up and walk away. He had no intention of doing so, as he was no honestly intrigued, but he was determined to keep his guard up, as he would when dealing with a car salesman.

They were interrupted again by the waitress returning to take their orders. The taller man seemed to choose something at random from the menu, while his companion gave a much more precise order. Attention to detail, Gerhardt noted. For himself, he ordered a top sirloin, cooked medium rare, along with a baked potato with everything. Neither of the other men gave any particular reaction to his choice.

After the waitress departed, the two men turned their attention back to Gerhardt.

"Are you interested in continuing the work you started, Colonel?" It was the first time that the second man had spoken directly to Gerhardt since greeting him. "Our client has a particular interest in your original designs."

"I don't think the U.S. Army will take kindly to you—your client—violating their patents."

"Designs can be changed, Colonel," the man said casually.

Gerhardt finally realized what it was about him. The man was ex-military of some kind; he could not help it. Addressing superior officers in an appropriate manner was so drilled into recruits during Basic that most soldiers never forgot it.

He was not surprised by the man's casual dismissal of the issue. Gerhardt, while understanding the basic necessity for the patent system, had seen it primarily as an issue for lawyers and corporations. He had not yet worked for an organization where the inventor was any more than a name on the patent applications. All rights—and future profits—went to the company. Occasionally, there was a token recognition in the terms of a cash bonus, but it was often a fraction of the financial rewards that the corporation enjoyed as result of the discovery.

It was also possible that the client of these two men had no interest in attempting to make a profit from his designs. He might want to have some internal use for them and, Gerhardt admitted without pride, there were very few engineers knowledgeable on the actual implementation of his designs. Theory was fine, he knew, but it rarely held up on the battlefield.

"I'm listening," Gerhardt offered flatly. It was true, but he was more interested in trying to determine what was really going on here than any interest in leaving the institute. (Although he did briefly play out the scenario in mind of informing Adamson that he was. It was momentarily satisfying, but he suspected that it would not at all play out as his imagination desired.)

A smile crept across the taller man's face. His companion's expression remained, not exactly stoic, but betrayed nothing about his inner thoughts. Gerhardt did see his eyes move and he turned just as the waitress arrived with their meals. He had been intent enough on their discussion that her appearance surprised him slightly, even with the subtle warning the man's shift in direction had provided, that he scolded himself silently for not being more aware of his surroundings.