by Jon Land
“Is that what I’m supposed to convince him of?”
“The power of an organization like ours can offer many things, but one of the most valuable is insulation. Insulation from mistakes, retribution and traditional punitive punishments. At the entrance to Group Six, a person leaves behind what he was before. From that time he, or she, is defined only by the extent of the contributions they are able to make.” Fuchs paused briefly. “We can insulate Joshua Wolfe from what happened in Cambridge. We can wipe his complicity in the deaths of more than seventeen hundred persons off the books and, more, we can provide justification for it in his mind. Something good must be shown to come out of it, and with your help, Doctor, I think we are quite capable of demonstrating that to him.”
In that instant Susan Lyle looked into the revealing stare in Colonel Lester Fuchs’s eyes and knew; perhaps she had known from nearly the beginning, but only admitted it now: no matter how this worked out, Joshua Wolfe belonged to Group Six. The rest of his life would be charted accordingly. What he offered was too valuable to let go and too dangerous to set free. Everything else, her presence included, was pretense.
In offering her access to the boy, though, Fuchs did not realize that, thanks to Blaine McCracken, she knew the truth about Harry Lime’s fate and thus grasped to what means the colonel would stoop to achieve his ends. That truth galvanized her resolve to help the boy, to convince him that anything was better than accepting the offer to remain at Group Six.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Susan told Fuchs.
At the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention containment facility inside Mount Jackson in the Ozarks, work had come to a standstill since Killebrew had made his startling discovery the previous day. He had suspended all research and experimentation on the remains of the Cambridgeside Galleria victims until he could reach Susan Lyle.
Killebrew felt as scared as he did frustrated. All his efforts to locate Susan had been stymied and he was finally told that she had been temporarily replaced as project head by a CDC director he knew only from promotional videos. Killebrew wasn’t about to share his shocking discovery with a total stranger, wasn’t about to tell anyone other than Susan what he had learned the day before:
The CLAIR organism wasn’t dead at all.
TWENTY-THREE
“Doctor?” Josh Wolfe asked again.
“Excuse me?”
“You were saying …”
Haslanger didn’t know what he’d been saying and backtracked in his mind. For twenty minutes now, he’d been taking Joshua Wolfe on the rounds of Group Six’s laboratory facilities. There was little need for narration; the boy recognized and understood everything he was seeing at first glance, often supplying the narration himself and looking to Haslanger only for confirmation. He seemed to possess total recall of everything his relatively brief perusal of Group Six’s data banks had imparted. For Haslanger it was merely a matter of filling in the blanks or helping the boy connect a project he remembered to its principal point of research.
That’s where they had left off, Haslanger recalled, catching up. He’d been praising the virtues of Group Six, indoctrinating Joshua Wolfe slowly, with an eye toward bringing him around to accepting the importance of the work that went on here.
“I was saying,” Haslanger continued, “that in spite of what much of the information you accessed indicated, a large portion of our work has been devoted to the development of nonlethal weapons of war.”
The boy turned quizzical at that. “A contradiction in terms, it sounds like.”
“Only because Group Six’s purpose lies in redefining how wars are fought. Actually, I suppose, the redefinition has already taken place and we are merely responding to it. Let me show you what I mean.”
They moved farther into the spacious and open lab they had entered. Haslanger stopped at a long, black table and handed Joshua Wolfe a piece of shiny material.
“What does this feel like to you?”
The boy ran it through his hands. “I don’t know. Aluminum foil, I guess. Only it doesn’t crinkle.”
“You’re not far off,” Haslanger complimented. “The material you’re holding makes up a shroud designed to engulf an enemy vehicle, even a tank. The shroud molds to its target’s shape and locks in place, rendering the vehicle instantly inoperative.”
When Haslanger finished speaking, Josh snatched a large clip from a stack of papers and wrapped the foillike material around it. True to Haslanger’s claims, it adhered easily and there seemed to be no prying it off afterwards.
“The shroud can be fired any number of ways,” the old man indicated. “The speed it picks up after being expelled from a barrel provides the force that both spreads the shroud outward and allows it to encase its target. An offshoot of this same material has also been used to create a new form of net that can be fired into large groups of angry, rioting masses. They are trapped just where they are standing and are held there while virtually no damage is done to them.”
Haslanger knew he had the boy’s attention now and loved every second of it. More than Joshua Wolfe’s approval, he wanted the boy to accept him, to consider him an equal.
“The point,” he went on, “is that the United States must not be forced to resort to total war every time we take up the cause against some rogue or insurrectional government. Terrains are too hostile, deterrent weaponry too sophisticated and prevalent. The rules must be rewritten. The projects we have in various stages of development number, literally, in the hundreds. Some deal with dramatic changes in sensory inputs, such as light, smell or sound. Others are more chemical or organic in nature—for instance, microbes we are developing which eat engine hoses, belts and electrical insulation.”
“Not all successes,” Joshua Wolfe said suddenly. “The files I accessed were rather detailed. Some of your experiments did not turn out as planned. GL-12, for instance.”
The sleeping gas disaster, Haslanger recalled with a chill.
“An entire town was massacred as a result, I believe. Can you get me a sample?”
Haslanger nodded uneasily.
“I think I can improve its stability for you. That’s where its problem lies, from what I was able to tell. And earlier this week, only yesterday, I think, the data was cryptic but it was clear your weapon that causes temporary blindness still needs some work.”
Haslanger wondered if Joshua Wolfe was mocking him. The data banks, after all, included nothing about the disastrous results of his most recent test, which meant the boy had figured something had gone wrong simply by analyzing the material provided, just as he had with GL-12. Haslanger tried not to let his expression give his thoughts or feelings away He didn’t bother denying either of Joshua Wolfe’s assertions. Growing defensive, he settled on a different track instead.
“In science, young man, the process of discovery is often painful, achieved at a cost we as scientists must be willing to pay. We test and we analyze but reality holds the only true proving ground. Failure does not rule out success; it merely tempers it. We must accept failure, and the sometimes difficult price it exacts, as a normal part of the discovery process.”
“But all this, what you do here, isn’t about science; it’s about war.”
“I prefer to believe that it’s about survival. Do you believe in the concept of deterrence, young man?”
“It kept the world out of World War III.”
“Why?”
“Because the superpowers each feared total annihilation from the other’s vast arsenal of atomic weapons.”
Haslanger nodded. “Well, those vast arsenals have been rendered impotent by their capacity for overkill. A stockpile of a thousand warheads is useless against a country, a terrorist group or a madman with a single weapon. By the turn of the century, my guess is scores of countries will possess atomic devices, either for their own use or to be brokered on the open market.”
“I don’t think lasers, sleeping gas or tin foil can do much to hold those kinds of people i
n check.”
“My point exactly. We need something else, something … more.”
The boy’s expression wavered slightly, losing its sureness. “CLAIR was meant to save people, not kill them.”
“And what happened in its only application?” Haslanger followed quickly, seizing the advantage.
“You know as well as I do.”
“For nothing? Is it to be for nothing? Can you accept that?”
“Could you accept all the people in that Bosnian town dying?”
“I was trying to save them, young man.” A pause. “Just as you were trying to save the people in that mall.”
Haslanger stopped there, not wanting to go any further. The truth was that the boy’s mastery of the principles of nanotechnology, his development of the first truly functional organic machine, had far greater ramifications than CLAIR. A whole new generation of weapons and the means for assuring worldwide dominance and control lay on the horizon. The potential was limitless. CLAIR was first generation, created by accident. What Joshua Wolfe could do in the succeeding years in the labs of Group Six …
“But I didn’t,” the boy said suddenly. “I killed them.”
Haslanger made his voice its sternest yet. “I believe in intentions and I believe in the final products that result from those intentions. Everything else can be dismissed as the superfluous meanderings and banter that the average mind spends it lifetime dwelling on. The exceptional, those bent on accomplishment, dismiss all but what they seek and what they ultimately achieve. Otherwise,” he said, knowing he was about to reveal too much of himself, “you run the risk of sharing your life with ghosts.”
Josh remembered the dream he’d had on the flight from Philadelphia to Miami, CLAIR eating up all the passengers while he stood there and watched.
“Who are your ghosts?” he asked Haslanger.
“Tell me what you think.”
“Your accent is German, and you’re probably in your seventies, which means you may have served with the Nazis.”
“Very good, but little to do with my ghosts, young man. The ghosts came later, because no one was able to help me the way I want to help you. The pressure was tremendous, intelligence and applied theory exceeding the limits of available technology.” Haslanger let the boy see him gaze fondly about the lab. “If I’d had this place from the beginning, there would be no ghosts.”
“The beginning’s already passed for me, too.” Josh shrugged.
“Still salvageable, young man. The ghosts can be controlled. Let us, let me help you.”
“I know what went wrong with CLAIR,” Josh said, interrupting Haslanger’s line of thought. “I know how to make it identify the nitrogen-oxygen proximities in molecules more precisely so it will be able to discriminate between sulfates and nitrates and human blood. If you want to help me, that’s what you’ll let me do. Here, in these labs.”
“I’ll have to take that up with Colonel Fuchs.”
“Make sure he knows I won’t help you otherwise. That includes providing the original formula. I’ll just walk out of here and face the consequences and the ghosts.”
“I’m sure he’ll agree. He wants you to stay as much as I do.” Haslanger watched the boy stiffen, maybe fighting back tears, and resisted the urge to reach out and touch him. Instead he simply lowered his voice. “We both understand how you have been punished your entire life for your wondrous skills and abilities. You have been made an outcast, as many who are deemed superior are. But at Group Six you will face no such problems. Here you will belong. You can be free to be who you are as you help us preserve the future of this country and this planet.”
Haslanger thought he saw the boy’s features starting to soften when the woman entered the lab.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“No,” said Haslanger, trying to hide his agitation.
“Colonel Fuchs asked me to escort our guest to his quarters as soon as you were finished.”
“I believe we’ve covered enough for now, anyway.”
“I want to start working tomorrow, Doctor,” Joshua Wolfe insisted sternly. “First thing.”
“I’ll see the colonel about that right away.”
Haslanger escorted the two of them into the hall and then headed off in the opposite direction.
“Working on what?” Susan asked when he was gone.
“CLAIR,” Josh said.
Susan elected to drop that subject. “It will take five minutes for us to reach your quarters. That’s all the time we have to talk; all the living quarters in this place are sure to have been bugged.”
They started off slowly.
“I’ve got to tell you something and I’m not really sure how. It’s about your friend. It’s about Harry.”
The boy’s eyes blazed into hers.
“I met someone, a friend of his. The trail he was following led to you, to your room at Harvard the same time I was there.”
“What trail?”
“Harry’s. He thought something had happened to you and he asked this friend to help.”
“That would be just like Harry,” Josh said with a faint smile.
“Then he disappeared and this friend was trying to find him. He didn’t think he was going to. He was after the people responsible.”
“Fuchs and Haslanger …”
“That’s what your presence here would seem to indicate. No matter what they promise you, no matter what they say, you can’t trust them. They’re not going to let you out of here under any circumstances.”
Josh considered that. “And you’re the one who gave me to them.”
“I didn’t even know Group Six existed when I issued my report back in Atlanta. They had me brought here, same as you.”
“Then we’re both prisoners.”
“We might be. I know too much.” Susan paused. “Even more than I told them.”
They reached the elevator and Josh looked at her.
“I know there’s a second vial of CLAIR you must have hidden somewhere.”
The elevator doors slid open to reveal an empty compartment. Susan stepped in and Josh followed reluctantly. The doors hissed back closed. Susan leaned forward and pressed 5. The elevator began its climb.
“I don’t want them getting their hands on it,” she continued very softly. “I don’t work here, I don’t work for them and I know what all this is about. Right now CLAIR is the only thing that can save Group Six from the scandal brewing in Washington. They need something to prove themselves to their supporters and you’ve got it. Beyond that, everything else you can accomplish here can elevate Group Six to a level on par with the CIA. That’s why they can’t let you leave. You’re too valuable. They don’t want to share you and they’re not about to let anyone know you even exist. That means you’re not going anywhere. You’re Fuchs’s express ticket to his general’s stripes and Haslanger’s ticket to the ultimate weapon he’s always sought. The bastard is still trying to win World War II. Only the sides have changed.”
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor and the doors slid open. No one was waiting or in sight nearby. Neither Susan nor Joshua Wolfe made any move toward stepping out.
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because I’m going to help you get out of here.”
“I read some of your poems,” Susan offered as they started down the fifth-floor hallway. As Josh’s features narrowed and tensed, she added,”I liked them. They made me feel like I knew you, at least knew who you are.”
Josh nodded. “That’s why I stopped writing. It made me think about that too much. It made everything hurt. It was easier not to think.” He stopped, but then looked over at her again. “Which was your favorite?”
“The first,” Susan replied without hesitation. “‘The Fires of Midnight.”’
“I remember when I wrote it, how mad I was, how unhappy. Maybe it was the first time I realized how different I really was. I hated everything and everybody. The fires were my rage. I wanted to
let it out, to let them burn.” He stopped again. “And they’ve been burning ever since. CLAIR was supposed to put them out and the only thing it did was make them so high and hot that maybe I’ll never be able to put them out. That was Haslanger’s argument, sort of. He’s got a point.”
“The burning will never stop if you stay at Group Six. They’ll make sure of that.”
They reached the door to Josh’s quarters on the fifth floor, just around the corner from Susan’s.
“Can you do it? Can you get me out of here?”
“I don’t know. I think so. I think I’ve got a way. But you’ll have to help.”
“How soon?”
She put the coded plastic slab Fuchs had given her into the proper slot in the door. It whisked open. “The sooner the better. Tomorrow night.”
“That would give me one day in the lab.”
“Yes.”
“I need that.”
“Why?”
“Insurance,” Josh told her.
Alan Killebrew continued to keep himself busy by rechecking his data, running repeat tests to be sure of his original findings and new ones to expand his understanding of the CLAIR organism.
From the point the Cambridgeside Galleria had tested clean, the assumption had been that, like any parasite, CLAIR died when its host did. But all indications pointed to the fact that it had been lying dormant instead. Denied sustenance, it had gone into a state of indefinite hibernation Killebrew had inadvertently ended.
He returned to his computer console and reran the original program. He had been superimposing molecules of the organism over each other to see if they maintained the same genetic shape when harvested from different areas of the body. His own words filled his ears.
“Except for some slight deviations along the edges consistent with manageable decay, the molecules appear to be identical in all—”
He had stopped when on the screen one of the molecules had begun dividing, expanding well beyond the borders of the one superimposed over it. He had split the computer screen back into two at that point. The molecule on the right, the one he had just harvested from the arteriosclerotic subject’s extremities, continued to grow before his eyes, part of a tissue sample he had sliced off with an electrically heated scalpel, left to smolder beneath it when he had neglected to return the scalpel to its tray.
