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is still out there. And the world is full of sick copycats who adopt and evolve successful viruses.
What are you going to do about it?
Well, I have your statement. If you leave your business cards, I'll know how to get back in touch.
That's it? Doug's soft words carried venom. You're sentencing people to pure hell. A statement
from me to the Washington Post and a posting of my findings to the Net won't have the credibility of a
pronouncement from the forum, but maybe they'll save someone. We'll goddamn well see. He stood.
Come on, Cheryl. I imagine Glenn has coffee to drink and forms to file in triplicate.
The bureaucrat winced. Before he could get out a retort, Cheryl jumped in. Sit, Doug. This is no
time for macho nonsense. She took two pieces of paper from her purse and handed one to each man.
This is a SIGNIT mailing list: Special Interest Group in Neural Interfacing Technology. Not many
names, and I've marked the people we think were affected.
Adams scanned his sheet. Is this enough data to be statistically significant?
Did the casualties have to reach statistical significance significance? Remembering Cheryl's
admonition, Doug willed himself to be calm. You're obviously ex-military. Have any contacts in a
three-letter agency?
To most of the country, that question might have suggested the Environmental Protection Agency.
Inside the Washington Beltway, it meant intelligence agencies, the CIA and its ilk. Sure.
Ask about black work done by Sheila Brunner and Tom Zimmerman. Black work was highly
classified, to the point that its existence was generally denied.
Agency folk aren't famed for their senses of humor. You sure you want this? Doug and Cheryl both
nodded.
Wait here. Adams stood. I'll go make some calls.
* * *
Doug turned to Cheryl. Is it me, or is our host stalling? Adams had just been paged from the
lobby.
What do you expect? That was quite a dare you made. And who are Sheila Brunner and Tom
Zimmerman, anyway? What do you know about them?
I'd like to hear that too, Mr. Carey. Behind closed doors would be prudent.
Adams had reappeared; with him were two serious-looking men. One was short and barrel-chested,
with Mediterranean coloring. The other was taller, wiry, and fair. Both men's suit coats bulged under their
left arms. The taller one seemed to be waiting for an answer.
Doug directed his response to Adams. Your friends have names, Glenn?
Ted Benson, and this is Alexandros Kessaris. Badges flashed. FBI.
Adams office didn't accommodate five very well, either spacewise or for air conditioning, but Doug
didn't care. The agents swift appearance suggested that his wager had paid off. Did Glenn mention
anything beside the names I dropped? Kessaris shrugged; Benson did nothing.
Good. I'll tell you about Brunner and Zimmerman, something I should have no way of knowing.
Then, maybe, the government will do something.
Benson gestured for him to continue.
I don't know Brunner or Zimmerman personally. I've seen their names repeatedly on conference
attendance summaries. They're on the newest SIGNIT membership roll. Neither ever presents a paper or
participates in an expert's panel. In five years, neither has submitted a paper to any neural-interfaces
journal. The NIT community is too small to hover on the edges, never contributing, without being
noticed. I bet that means they're working on something black. He caught Benson's eye. How'm I
doing? The agent looked back dispassionately.
Have it your way. Your rapid response to Glenn's call tells me one thing. Something unpleasant and
unexpected happened to one or both of them. Glenn may not like it, but I've got an explanation for
disasters befalling people in this field.
Benson shrugged. Hand-waving. Doom and gloom. Do you write for a checkout-counter news
rag?
You want specifics? Doug was maddened by their stonewalling. Fine. An unexpected stroke,
perhaps, or a heart attack. He looked for a reaction. No? How about sudden mental illness? Strange
behavior, probably nonverbal.
Watchful eyes narrowed, concession enough. OK, that's it: sudden mental illness. Look, you
must've checked clearances on us after Glenn's call. We've both done intel work; we've both held
tickets. In the intelligence community, tickets denoted access to top-secret, compartmentalized material.
You didn't get a ticket without an exhaustive, fifteen-year background check and a polygraph interview.
It's been a while since we've used em, but peace did break out all over. How about you cough up a
little information?
The agents considered. They were working on neural interfaces for possible mind-controlled
weapon systems, Benson finally offered. Separate projects, both starting to show real progress. Very
hush-hush.
A few weeks ago, Zimmerman tried torching a nuclear power station. We don't know why. The
plant survived, but Zimmerman went up like a roman candle. It took some arm-twisting, but we got the
story reported as an escaped mental patient.
Doug remembered the news coverage. Someone on a publicity tour of the nuke plant had stuffed his
pockets with sealed, gasoline-filled plastic bags. And he had a butane lighter. Doug's stomach lurched; he
changed the subject. And Brunner?
Benson looked grim. Brunner walked out of her office, ignoring all questions. People said she
looked strange. Distracted.
She never returned, and we can't find her.
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