One year earlier, NMech’s Chief Executive Officer linked to Kiley in an abrupt attempt to prise her away from NOAA to become the Chief of Operations for the Cerro Rojo desalinization plant. An installation as complex as Cerro Rojo requires the steady hand of a manager who possesses a thorough understanding of the science behind the miracle.
She had turned Eva Rozen down. “I’m not interested in private industry,” Kiley had said, “I do good work here at NOAA.”
“You like petty people and petty science?” Eva had shot back.
Kiley shrugged. The gesture was invisible. Rozen waited until Kiley broke the silence.
“Look, I’ve been in government service for 18 years. Another 7 years and I can retire. NOAA may not be as exciting as your life, but I’ll have a nice pension and the time to enjoy it.”
“So it’s money?”
“Are you kidding? Government work and money do not a partnership make. No, I get to do good science. That’s the key, Ms. Rozen—science.”
“It’s Dr. Rozen. Chemistry and computer science. Harvard.”
“Well, Dr. Rozen, I have my science and a secure position. Why do I need your little startup?”
“Little startup? Any idea how much NMech is worth?”
“Ms.—excuse me—Dr. Rozen, I don’t follow financial reporting. So, no, I don’t know. Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t see what you can offer that I’d want, and I have some petty science waiting for me.”
Eva simply stated a figure before Kiley could end the link. The number was an attention-grabbing number, a round number, a digit followed by zeros, as many zeros as there were digits in Kiley’s current salary. When the scientist hesitated, Eva lowered the figure. A second reduction, and Kiley capitulated. In the face of Eva’s irresistible force, there were no immovable objects.
A year later, the sugar plum fairies of fame and fortune no longer danced in Kiley’s head. This morning’s disaster? The desal filters had failed entirely. Not one drop of water was being generated. No one could find an explanation for today’s outage, nor determine when the filters might go back on line. This morning, a forlorn Kiley missed her former life in government service, with its scheming competitiveness, its venality—and its boring safety.
From 2,240 miles north, Eva Rozen observed Dr. Kiley’s frustrations. She smiled without mirth and entered the results of her observations into the Cerberus program.
23
UNQUIET PHENOMENA
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 2045
While Marta prayed for the Rockford victims, Eva paced in her office. She was restless. Her forearm itched maddeningly and she scratched it until the skin bled. The rhythmic hiss of her pant legs rubbing together as she walked was a whispering voice that further agitated her. Ssst-ssst. Ssst-ssst. Too bad! What now? Too bad! What now?
It was impossible to concentrate. The din from the Table of Clamorous Voices overwhelmed her. The cacophonous shrieks and moans and cries, the accusations and taunts battered her sanity like a tidal wave falling on a seaside village.
Eva struggled to review the past forty-eight hours. An investigation of the explosion was in full swing and NMech’s records had been subpoenaed. The company was ‘a party of interest’ in the search for a cause of the blast. She’d instructed corporate counsel to cooperate. But NMech’s many layers of security slowed the company’s response which created the appearance that NMech was interfering with the investigation.
What to do about Marta and Jim? They suspected her, too. After the blast, Marta spoke of healing and her role as a bohique—voodoo doctor is more like it, Eva thought—but now Marta refused to talk or even make eye contact with Eva. She’d been cool and distant for the last year, blaming her for Dana’s growing pains. Marta had seen to it that Dana spent little time around her, a circumstance Eva found surprisingly distressing.
Now this. Was Marta a threat, a neutral, or an irritating ally? Marta’s support was unlikely, her opposition uncertain. Jim was a wild card. She had to be careful around him. She thought he was her friend, but he’d spurned her. Granted, she’d been acting a bit out of character, but everyone had ups and downs, didn’t they? And the boy, Dana—what could he do? Plenty, she thought. I know how well he jacks and ghosts. He’s like a kid brother, but now he’s under his mother’s control. Damn her interference! She’d planned to bring Dana into an executive role at NMech. Together, they’d be unstoppable. But now the boy could be the biggest problem.
She shook her head to clear that thought. I just have to finesse this, keep them all preoccupied until the investigation blows over. Just a couple weeks at the most.
She continued pacing. Every sound in her office was a chorus of voices, mocking her. Too bad! What now? Too bad! What now?
Her desk was as bare as her thoughts, with only a white coffee flask and mug. She nudged these items into place—was that the third time?—to center them precisely along the upper edge of her desk. The walls and carpet were set to a milky white and gave the impression of congealed pabulum.
Coffee. She remembered the coffee. Even though the addition of neurochemicals enabled her to think faster, to work faster, to complete the bid, she’d had no chance. The damned bid was rigged! Now they all want to blame me for the explosion? Nobody insults me without paying a price.
She brewed a cup, adding carefully measured drops of the neuroactive concoction, and gulped it down. She was rewarded with a paralyzing stomach cramp and bit back tears. Finally, her heartbeat slowed and became regular. Her skin flushed. She could feel her thoughts reorganize. She was pacing faster now, nearly running. Her arms and legs and hands responded faster than she could ever remember. She felt good.
And the Voices sang in harmony, once again.
What’s the plan? She looked around her office. Her eyes fixed on Gergana’s brooch framed on one wall, a relic from, well, from before. Her attention shifted to a small terrarium on the credenza across from her desk—plants and flowers from around the world that provided medicines and recreational pharmacopeia for synthesis.
A second planter housed a pair of intertwined green and black vines. An ugly and useless gift from Marta. It was supposed to represent anger and grace, qualities that exist in everyone. Marta and her legends. Yocahu and Juricán. Give me a break. Who the hell does she think she is, preaching about her gods? She’d be nowhere without me. And what did the gods do for her father, rotting in a Mexican jail?
Eva paced. Then an idea struck. Would it work? Could it neutralize Marta and Jim? Yes! She calculated the moves and likely outcomes with the cold precision of a chess master. She stared into the terrarium and saw the vines as lambent branches of a flowchart rather than mere plant matter. The divisions and offshoots became the steps she would need to take. It would be straightforward. She’d jacked deep into the legal system before and she could do it again.
Eva subvocalized and as soon as a heads-up display appeared, she mouthed a few commands and found her target. Perfect. The man was accessible. She had to bring him to Boston, unnoticed. The office was too risky, but her home? Yes.
Leaving no tracks, Eva jacked into several secure databases, starting with a United States Department of Agriculture public information portal in Seattle. She ghosted through a half dozen others, soaring on currents of thought, leapfrogging and crisscrossing the country and leaving too many trails to follow.