The Judas Contact (Boomers Book 1) (2 page)

The trip took mere minutes and dropped her off at the dozen steps leading up to the revolving doors. Shouldering her purse, she took her time slipping out of the tram and smoothed her skirt. She’d chosen a sedate forest green combo over a white camisole. She probably should have worn hose, but she preferred the cool air on her bare legs and the heels were enough of a sacrifice.

Tucked back away from her face, her hair glittered with a pair of combs that would double as code breakers when she activated them. In a pinch, she would be able to use them to bypass their electronic key system. She’d turned down a camera in her sunglasses. They weren’t messing up her Guccis for anything and, anyway, the facility’s security system would pick up any active device as they rolled through the high-powered scanner. Cold air washed over her as she pushed through the doors.

Ten minutes later, she followed her escort into the maze of the research laboratory. Ilsa’s lab was on the third floor, well below the reportedly inaccessible eight through ten floors. The keycard pad next to the button and the keypad highlighted the rigorous controls in place. It made sense since R.E.X. stood for Research, Engineering and Xenogenetics. The facility was on the cutting edge of every major bio-metric breakthrough in the last decade. If their recent report to the board of the Infinity Corporation was anything to go on, their advancements were on the cusp of changing the world as they knew it.

“Simon is monitoring you, sweetheart. Proceed as planned.”
Thanks for the update, Michael. I was hanging here with bated breath.
But she didn’t voice the thought or allow anything but bland boredom to show on her features. The Boomers treated everything like tactical warfare. When was the last time they had fun?

The elevator dinged, announcing their arrival on the third floor. Rory preceded her escort, pausing to ‘adjust’ her badge and survey the hallway. The elevator opened onto a wide promenade exposed on all sides by glass. As if on cue, Michael murmured. “I have you.”

The bridge spanned the level and looked down into the marble atrium forty-five feet below. Four cameras tracked her movements with little to no obvious blind spots. Pairs of heavily armed, black-clothed security guards in flak jackets stood watch at either end of the bridge, a significant change in the two years since she last visited Ilsa at her laboratory.

“This way, Miss,” her escort urged her along. The open concourse, the glass walls, the heavy security and the cameras left her with the sensation of being too out in the open—no easy cover available. Her heels clicked on the tiled floors. If running were involved, the shoes would definitely have to go.

She touched the first clip in her hair, adjusting it and activating it at the same time. Her escort’s pass carded their way through a series of three doors in rapid succession. Each one added a new layer of security from pass card to code key to retinal scan and, finally, thumbprint. The hairs on the back of Rory’s neck stiffened.
What the fuck is Ilsa working on?
Most scientific facilities employed heavy security, but this bordered on the ridiculously paranoid.

Rory, did you obtain the key code the guard pressed in?
Simon’s telepathic voice murmured across the rim of her consciousness. She nodded once, an absent gesture as the escort admitted her onto a bare, institutional hallway with only one door visible. Mentally reciting the number for Simon, she focused her thoughts on the present and not on the uneasiness icing her spine. Instead of just opening the door, he knocked on it.

A muffled command to enter whispered through the steel door—because wood didn’t clang when banged on—and the escort opened the door. “You have a visitor, Dr. Blaine. Miss Aurora Graystone of the Infinity Corporation.” Her credentials would hold up under any scrutiny. She actually did work for Infinity and possessed an office in their super-tower in midtown, even if she didn’t use it that often.

The visible laboratory space stretched out across a third of the space that made up the entire floor. Rory glanced around the desk space, the computers scrolling data, and spotted the dog cages with five of the most gorgeous golden retrievers she’d ever seen. The animals wagged their tails and barked excitedly. The leggy blonde stepping out from behind a large workstation topped Rory’s slender height by a good three inches. With her icy blue eyes and rich platinum hair, she looked more Norwegian goddess than scientist.

Then she squealed. “Rory!”

Her leather-soled shoes swished across the floor and the women hugged. The faint smell of Prada’s
Candy
wrapped around her and Rory returned the squeeze with true affection. “Hey, sister, how are you?”

“I should be cross with you—two years between lunch dates is horrible manners—but at least you called!” Ilsa leaned back, and they shared a private giggle. “I hadn’t even realized how long it’s been until I tried to remember where we ate last time.”

“At the duck pond.” Rory pressed a light kiss to the air near Ilsa’s cheek and drew back, letting her purse slide down her arm in the most casual of gestures. A slender PDA inside it would begin the remote decryption of the machines humming in Ilsa’s office. If they could download her research without involving her, all the better. The last thing she wanted to do was get her college roommate in trouble. “You had a presentation for Global and didn’t have time for a real lunch. So it was hot dogs and sodas with the ducks getting most of the buns.”

“Oh my God, that’s right.” Ilsa pulled off a pair of reading glasses and tucked them into the pocket of her lab coat. The light colored blouse and tan slacks she wore beneath it were as nondescript as they came. She also seemed to be lacking in any jewelry. The kennels bounced with the dog’s enthusiasm and Ilsa glanced over at them. “Shush. Sit.”

The absolute silence on the canines’ part and their obedient drop to their haunches was both impressive and eerie. The escort excused himself, but neither Rory nor Ilsa acknowledged his exit. “Nice.”

“That is the result of five years of research and two years of fine-tuning the applications. I think I’m finally ready to present.” Pride swelled in Ilsa’s voice.

“What did you do to them exactly?” The beautiful dogs were duplicates of each other, right down to the silken coats with their glossy sheen and the bright eager eyes.

Ilsa rubbed her hands together. “Okay, do you remember my theory regarding brain stimulation?”

In exquisite detail.
But Rory didn’t say it aloud. “Something about application of stimulus to certain areas resulting in different reactions…maybe?” Playing dumb didn’t come naturally to her, but she didn’t mind the occasional airhead moment if it served her purposes.

“Close enough. Okay, so the frontal lobe is where impulse control begins. We actually have to
learn
this type of control, it’s not a natural behavior. We don’t just automatically hold our tongues and keep secrets but, by the same token, we don’t automatically prevent ourselves from taking what we want or doing what we want without learning.” Ilsa warmed to the topic, a flush warming her pale face while her eyes sparkled. Rory had to wonder how often she really got to talk about her work—even with a layman like herself.

Wanting to encourage her, even with a mission at hand, Rory spread her hands. “Okay, like when we’re kids and the teacher asks a question. We blurt out the answer even though we raised our hands.”

“Exactly. Dogs are similarly structured. They have basic desires and wants—the urge to bark, the urge to run, the urge to urinate on your favorite shoes.” The last statement carried enough sauce that Rory winced in sympathy. Her parents refused her a dog when she grew up for a similar laundry list of negative reasons. “Then there is the urge to dig or escape to explore—most dogs that go missing are not lost because they want away from their owners, but because their biological urges tell them to run, chase, play, and sniff.”

“Still following you, more or less. Why I can’t walk away from a shoe and purse sale even if I can’t possibly need more shoes?” That statement went against most of her personal beliefs, but it fit the parameters of Ilsa’s description.

“Rory,” Michael breathed in her ear. “You’re supposed to be
leaving
for lunch, not having a lesson in animal husbandry.”

“Exactly.” Ilsa bounced a half step and strode over toward the cages. She popped open one and the at-least-eighty-pound dog bounded out. “Sit.” The dog immediately sat. That in and of itself wasn’t remarkable. Dog training was a skill many humans perfected.

“Okay.” Rory didn’t disguise the questioning skepticism in her voice.

“Just watch.” Ilsa opened a small refrigerator and extracted a steak. The dog’s tail thumped against the floor. She peeled back the container lid and sat the bowl, rib eye and all, on the floor. She looked at the dog. “Stay. Do not eat.”

Do not eat is not a dog command.
But Rory said nothing as Ilsa walked away and motioned Rory to follow her. Leaving her purse where it was, she trailed Ilsa away from the dog and the rib eye to a small enclosure against the exterior wall. Ilsa ushered her inside and flipped a switch. Cameras all over the lab turned on and displayed on the four screens. The dog Ilsa had ordered to stay sat where he was, two feet away from a juicy hunk of meat. His tail thumped, his mouth was open in a toothy doggy smile and his tongue lolled out, drool falling in a steady dripping motion.

He didn’t move.

Ilsa closed the door and the thump echoed in their little observation nest. Rory expected the dog to move forward and start eating. Most animals, unobserved, would. Even the best trained animals would move after thirty or more seconds. Folding her arms, a frown tightened her forehead. One minute stretched into three and finally to five. The dog never moved.

“That’s a hell of a trick.” Rory admitted.

“It’s not a trick, it’s a chip.” Ilsa grinned and she practically vibrated with pride. “We microchip dogs for identification purposes, but my chip doesn’t go in the base of the neck. Instead, it’s bio-mechanical and is implanted near the frontal lobe. It sends stimuli, electrical impulses that reinforce the command when the dog might normally let it go. It’s going to revolutionize pet care—no more missing dogs when you can simply program the chip with the address and mental command to return home. The dog escapes, the dog will come back, because the chip will tell it to.”

Rory rubbed a hand over her mouth, careful to not wipe away her lipstick as she studied the dog on the screen. “How long will he wait before he eats?”

“Forever. Unless the command is counteracted, the chip recalls the order and continues to inhibit that area. It’s crude right now and can’t remember more than a small amount of data. The most basic commands, for example, or the encoding of where home is. But can you imagine? Never having to worry if your Fido got out again?” Ilsa’s singular delight didn’t ease the cold stone resting in Rory’s gut. The implications extended far beyond Fido.

If human brains could be implanted with similar chips...

“We’re years away from a real human trial, but can you imagine the application toward human addictions? We wouldn’t have to chemically castrate sexual deviants anymore. We could implant and program the chip to avert that impulse. No more smokers, no more alcoholics—yes, I know, it’s a bit of a stretch from a dog who isn’t eating a steak, but I can do this.” Malice and power didn’t cloud Ilsa’s straightforward excitement. She was just a scientist standing on the precipice of a world changing discovery—it was probably how the nuclear physicists felt at Los Alamos before they dropped the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Ten minutes in the little room and the dog still sat, patiently waiting. His tail stopped thumping, but he neither laid down to rest nor stood to eat the steak. He just waited. It was kind of creepy. Shoving the disturbance down, Rory pursed her lips. “So, I think I can tell Infinity your grant money has been well spent.”

Ilsa chuckled and opened the door. “Winston, c’mere boy.” She clapped her hands and the dog bounded to his feet and raced toward her. The animal’s natural boisterousness translated into sloppy wet kisses and barks of excitement. “Such a good boy.”

She scratched his ears affectionately and pointed to the steak. “Go eat.” She didn’t have to issue the command twice. The dog pounced on the steak and gobbled it up. “I probably shouldn’t give it to him, but I don’t really like tormenting the poor dear. Just because the impulse is controlled by the chip, it doesn’t change the desire.”

Which offered a small—very small—measure of comfort as far as Rory could see. Still possessing the urge and the want would conflict with the impulse to not act. The dog seemed to handle it well—but internal conflict that could arise from such a command in a person could stagger even the most balanced of minds.

“But you’re years away from human application?” Choosing Ilsa as an information source may have been better than she’d imagined, but it didn’t remove the unease coiling around her spine. In the wrong hands, this was potentially devastating. Soldiers programmed to ignore their fears and act only on the orders of their superiors?
No, thank you.

“Well, there are ethical issues to consider. I like the idea of providing families and their pets with some security that the dog can and will come home again. I’ve toyed with the idea of storing data in a chip, technical data that doesn’t come readily to some people, but that’s still very theoretical. The programming, the delicacy of the interaction—”

“The fact that you have to stick it in someone’s brain?” Rory couldn’t help the mistrust that filtered into those words. Brain surgery was a tricky business to begin with. The last time she checked, they still didn’t understand how the brain fully worked or why some people possessed xenogenetic skills that set them apart.

“Exactly. Winston, kennel.” She sent the dog back to his crate and cleaned up after him before securing the door. She paused at each kennel door to scratch each dog’s head then to give them treats. “But I’m starving and you promised me lunch.”