The Judas Contact (Boomers Book 1) (5 page)

Awareness returned with bone aching slowness. Cotton coated her tongue, and her eyelids weighed a ton. She rolled onto her back with a groan and stared up into the most amazing green eyes.

Green eyes?

The roof.

Memory crashed down on her. The guards coming to take her into custody and the flight up the stairs. Rory taking down guard after guard. What the hell was she?

The tenth floor.

The creature at the door.

Fear spiked up her spine and she lurched upwards. Green Eyes caught her as she nearly tumbled off the cot. She struggled with him, but her tongue wouldn’t unglue from the roof of her mouth long enough to say anything. She jerked again, twisting away from him as illness swamped her. Her head spun and she sagged against him. He lifted her as though she weighed less than nothing and sat her down on the bed. Cool leather brushed her damp hair back from her face.

As his face swam into view, she saw that his lips actually moved. Somewhere between recognizing that he spoke and that she wasn’t hearing the words, the cotton plugs in her ears seemed to give way.

“Dr. Blaine. You have to breathe. Slowly, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Your body is reacting to the toxin. Can you hear me, Dr. Blaine?”

“Yes.” She managed to croak the word. “Thirsty.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I’ll get you some water.” He sat her more firmly on the cot, pulling his hands back with seeming reluctance.

“Thank you.”

Fortunately, she missed his shoes when she threw up.

Steam rose over the top of the mug of coffee. Ilsa added a tablespoon of sugar and then a second, vividly aware of the large men filling the little kitchen area around her. Rory sat across the table, calm and serene, as if they sat at some table outside a café rather than in a non-descript kitchen with warehouse walls and five men—soldiers, they were definitely soldiers—she had never seen before. She wasn’t a prisoner.

At least she didn’t think she was a prisoner. Her hands trembled on the mug, but the first sip was so good that she took another and then a third. The focus on the coffee let her push past the wobbly feeling playing tilt-a-whirl with her insides. The silence was thick, heavy with expectation. When it became apparent they weren’t going to say anything, she set her coffee mug down and flicked her gaze around her audience.

She looked across the table at Rory, her “friend” and apparent savior, and she cleared her throat. “Do I dare ask what happened at the lab?” She was proud her voice didn’t quaver.

“I actually have the same question for you.” Rory wore a tank top and shorts. The outfit shaved years off of her and gave her a teenage vitality that Ilsa once envied. She’d never be mistaken for a teenager again. In addition to her height, she’d inherited full hips and boobs that were way too big to be mistaken as a teenager’s. “The security guards said they were there to take you into custody.”

Ilsa shrugged. Internal politics of the Research, Engineering and Xenogenetics labs were hardly conversation for—she considered the men again—whatever government they worked for. They seemed American and her outright refusal to weaponize the microchip could be behind the game of deception.

“I was actually referring to your ability to take down four grown men, and I lost count of how many more in the stairwell, without breaking a sweat. Not to mention your friends here. Who do you work for? CIA? NSA?” The director of the CIA had visited her laboratory no less than three times and each time the money they offered doubled. His last attempt added a layer of brow-beating and loyalty to country. No one seemed to accept that her loyalty to her country included not programming people to be weapons. Thankfully, the Infinity Corporation underwrote most of her work so she didn’t have to accept the government offers to keep going.

Her chips would help families and pets. That was an ideal worth supporting. Her fingers flexed against the mug. Green Eyes told her she had a toxin in her system. The chill sensation continued to roam through her blood. She wanted to ask what it was. A neurotoxin? A bio-chemical toxin? How did it shut her down? What, if any, long-term effects could she expect? But she held her tongue. She didn’t know who these people were.

Rory had called her for the pretense of a lunch, but the woman wasn’t just the heiress who played at being executive for one of her parents’ companies. No. No way was that all she was. Not after the way she’d fought those men.

“You can’t hold me without a warrant longer than twenty-four hours.” Her spine straightened with a bravado she really didn’t possess. “Unless you plan to pull the Patriot Act on me. Understand, I will not cooperate in whatever kind of witch hunt you’re pulling.”

“We’re not arresting you, Ilsa.” Her friend actually managed to sound shocked by the assertion, but Ilsa didn’t withdraw it. In the years since the 2001 terrorist attacks, scientists faced a scrutiny similar to the witch hunts, their orders monitored, their inventories reviewed, and she’d had her fill of NSA and Homeland Security agent “audits” since turning down the military contract.

“Then I’m free to go?”

The expressions on the men didn’t waver. So much for not being a prisoner. She zeroed in on Green Eyes. He leaned against the far wall, arms folded and bunched up across his chest. His reddish-brown hair looked even more ginger under the light. His scruffy appearance and implacable expression eased a fraction more than the others. He’d been damn gentle with her while she flailed around like a fish and his warm voice soothed, like honey on a raw throat.

But honey came from bees, and they stung like a bitch when provoked. Dragging her scrutiny away, she took another swallow of the coffee. Every sip pushed away the fog determined to cloud her brain.

“Ilsa, I asked you out to lunch because I wanted to ask for your help.” The dark brooding man standing just behind Rory’s chair dropped a hand on her shoulder. She paused and shot him a look of pure impatience. Ilsa recognized that look, she’d seen it any number of times during college. Her former roommate loved to break the rules, particularly if someone stern issued them. That just might be her ticket to understanding what the hell happened.

For some reason, Rory’s irritation transferred into a sharp glance to a second, leaner man with blond, almost white hair. His serene expression betrayed neither rebuke nor comment. Ilsa lifted her brows as Rory’s expression darkened and the pale-haired man sighed, lifting his hands as though in surrender.

They hadn’t said a word.

“As I was saying before the goon squad interrupted, we need your help. I have no idea why security came for you, but I have a feeling you need our help, too.” Rory leaned her elbows onto the table and pressed forward, all trace of humor and play leaving her expression. “I want to tell you a story and I need you to listen with an open mind.”

“Am I free to go?” Ilsa interrupted her. “Honestly. No matter what you’re about to tell me, and since you’re not asking for me to sign a nondisclosure agreement, I’d prefer to avoid classified intelligence that could result in incarceration.”

Rory hesitated. It was a small pause, an almost insignificant pause, but it was still there. “Yes, you’re free to go. If you aren’t inclined to help, we can—we
will
— let you go. But I think this may intrigue you, so I need you to just listen without questions. When we’re done, if you want to ask, we’ll do our best to answer.”

Restlessness seemed to invade the men as Ilsa considered the words. Their shifts were imperceptible. The dark, brooding man behind Rory scowled, not at Ilsa, but at Rory. The blond man looked pained. The tall, black-skinned one sighed, as did the leaner, ruddier faced gentleman on his left. The most interesting reaction came from Green Eyes.

He almost smiled.

Her heart did an odd squeeze at the hint of a grin curving his full, even lips. The action had a marvelous impact on his features, gentling them. His stern brow and tight jaw relaxed, but the true tell lay right around his eyes where the skin crinkled at the corners. She wasn’t sure she believed Rory, but she did believe Green Eyes.

“Is she telling the truth?” She directed her question at him, eyebrows lifted. She’d spent years observing behavior and measuring even the most minute of results. She would know if he lied or, at least, if he didn’t believe the truth.

“We mean you no harm, Dr. Blaine, and we do not want to hold you prisoner. We do need your assistance, as Rory said. If you would listen, we would appreciate that.” His almost smile threatened to become a grin. His words were simple, but his voice was like melted butter. Hot and a little salty, as though he wasn’t used to speaking so gently.

Ilsa believed him.

“All right, I’ll listen.” She transferred her attention back to Rory, amused at her friend’s slack-jawed expression. Rory stared at Green Eyes as though shocked by his words. Ilsa took a note. Based on the surprise in Green Eyes’ expression, his support seemed as unexpected to him as it was to her captors.

Good to know
. She might be able to use that knowledge but, for now, she tucked it away.

“What I’m about to tell you is going to sound too fantastic to be true, but it is. First, I’m a member of the Infinity Corporation’s hero division.” She paused as though to let Ilsa absorb that kernel of information. Rumors abounded in the city that larger corporations funded the heroes. She’d seen the news clips about Tempest and Rupture, but they were both male. Rory couldn’t be either of those. Most of the heroes avoided the limelight, though, in their high-speed information age, that in and of itself seemed to be a marvel.

“All right. I’ll accept that as a fact in evidence.” Another sip of coffee made digesting the information a little easier. Rory pursed her lips and nodded.

“A few weeks ago, I met these gentlemen. They are time travelers from about a hundred or so years in our future.”

Seriously?
Time travel theory was just that, a theory. The concept that time ran in parallels and that quantum division allowed for infinite possibilities made a working hypothesis an improbability at least with their current understanding of quantum mechanics. Not that Ilsa was a specialist. She took a longer drink of the coffee, almost disappointed that she’d finished the cup.

A second steaming cup appeared in front of her and she glanced up to see Green Eyes’ faint smile. He tugged her empty cup away and melted back to lean against the wall.

“Like I said, just listen and we’ll go from there. They came back in time on a mission, and they’ve lived here for more than a few decades. They come from a pretty dark future. If you want details, I’m sure one of them can answer those questions in a minute.” Rory rose to her feet briefly and then sat back down, shifting the position of her leg. She’d been kicking the crap out of people earlier and must be hurting—or was it yesterday?

Ilsa frowned. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been out, so she added that to her list of questions. “Go on.”

“In addition to being from the future, some of their tech is also from that era—including their bioware.” Rory paused on the last word, her gaze narrowing. “Microchips implanted in their brains.”

Ilsa stiffened. “That’s impossible. We’re years away from human trials.” Did they really think she was a fool?

“Like I said, over a hundred years into our future—human trials occurred, they perfected the technology and these men have it.” No trace of humor marred the words. In fact, Rory’s tone grew more serious, if that were possible.

“Implanting a microchip into a human brain would mean we mapped the full functionality, imprinted neuro-chemistry and connections into the circuitry and gave it access to the human nervous system. We’re decades away from understanding how that works.” Well, not exactly. She understood the principle, and she had several theories for how to make it applicable. But human trials would be the final barometer. Errors and failure would tell her what to fix, but those errors could lead to loss of mental faculties, possibly lobotomizing the trial participants if not outright killing them. They simply didn’t possess the equipment necessary to fine tune against so fragile a system without accepting that catastrophic failure could occur.

It was why she adamantly refused to even consider human applications, even if they were a real possibility. It killed her every time one of her dogs died.

“Right now it’s an impossibility, but a hundred years from now?” Rory’s eyebrows lifted. The woman really believed what she was saying.

Ilsa twisted, looking at each of the men in turn, but focusing on Green Eyes. “You have a microchip inserted into your brain? Do you know where?”

“Cerebral cortex,” the blond answered, his voice almost melodic and gentle, like an ocean breeze on a meditation recording.

“That’s a central pathway. That increases the likelihood of failure.” At his almost imperceptible nod, she pressed forward. “Information in the brain requires a certain amount of connectivity. Memories, for example, are not stored as one item. The scent of a thing, the name of a thing, the functionality of a thing, and that thing’s meaning to you are all stored in different areas. The brain then retrieves that data, comparing and matching before presenting you with a memory. “

She looked back to Rory. “That’s why some memories are stronger than others and some aspects of memories are even stronger. Something as simple as a scent can conjure a powerful mental and emotional memory but, without the associated data, you wouldn’t know why. We see it in amnesia victims. They maintain motor skills and muscle memory, but no actual knowledge about why they can play a piano concerto or why, when they see their parents or loved ones, they fill with a sense of euphoria. All of those are considerations with mapping the mind. To make a microchip function, you have to convince the brain that it is also a resource for ‘memory’ storage and ‘memory’ access.”

Standing up, she gave into the urge to pace. The men all fell back a step, as though giving her room. Her hands trembled. Information whirled through her mind. “What do your chips do? Allegedly?”