“Generally?”
Captain Simmons placed a disc on the desk and activated the hologram. “Nine out of ten soldiers are showing the predicted results.”
Kristoff watched the holographic soldiers rush forward with snappy salutes, eager for the next order.
“Ten per cent failure rate isn’t acceptable.” Kristoff was already considering adjustments to the formula.
“Not precisely a failure rate, sir.” The hologram shivered and a new image appeared. “This soldier has super reflexes, and he hasn’t lost a hand-to-hand or battle drill in over a year. He has an uncanny ability to anticipate his opponent’s moves.”
“Interesting. See that he gets back into the field immediately and keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir. Though he seems less inclined to blind obedience.”
“Ninety per cent gives us enough simple cattle.” Kristoff glared at the tiny representation of the odd soldier. There was potential here, he could feel it. “Ten per cent are like this one?”
“No, sir. It seems ten per cent are variables. Some of these x-factors you might find favorable.”
Kristoff appreciated the young officer’s ability to see the big picture. It was part of the reason he’d brought him into his inner circle, providing him with boosters of “nutritional supplements” unavailable to the general military. In his years of genetic research and public service, guiding policy as the Health Chairman, he’d found an open mind the most important asset when it came to advancing the human race.
Checking his watch once more, he walked over to the window overlooking the lab. Lorine was slumped at her station, her head pillowed on her hands. The sedative he’d told Simmons to put in her hot chocolate had done the trick.
“Good work, son. Take her to the operating room.”
One
Chicago, December 2096
Jim Corvin leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head as he scanned the bank of monitors. Each perfect camera angle showed him every corner of the secret warehouse compound he was charged with protecting.
Everything looked fine, but his instincts were warning him about a looming threat, and he wanted to pin it down. Professional or personal? In his line of work it could be both. Usually his sixth sense about risk and danger gave him a more concise picture. He chalked up the lack of clarity to third-shift fog.
He could turn on specialized equipment in any one of the private suites, but only when absolutely necessary. Without a specific lead, intuitive or solid, he wouldn’t breach privacy. The boss guaranteed everyone on staff the best security at all times, and complete privacy after the probationary period.
The boss, known as Slick Micky, was the most notorious smuggler in the region, and he kept the heart of his operation in Chicago. His success was directly tied to his radical philosophies about teamwork, his rare talent for inspiring loyalty, and his trade secret of only running coffee, sugar, and nicotine, while everyone believed he ran the hard stuff.
Despite his twitchy sixth sense, Jim yawned at the complete lack of activity in the warehouse. Working third shift to cover for holiday leave used to be easy. These days, he was grateful for the unlimited availability of full-caff coffee. Pulling this detail with the government-approved half-caff would be impossible.
The door from the boss’s office opened and Micky stepped inside the monitoring room. “Need a refill?”
Jim nodded and held out his mug. “What are you doing up?” With all the years between them, he no longer bothered with how Micky got around the security cameras. The boss had plenty of secrets, and Jim knew some were better left undiscovered.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Micky said with a shrug. “Figured you wouldn’t mind the company.”
“Sure.” Experience told Jim there was more to this visit, but the boss wouldn’t reveal it until he was ready. Jim watched the entrances to the warehouse cycle through on the monitors. All the guards on post were alert, though they were dressed like strung-out bums and addicts. These disguises helped conceal the state-of-the-art facility Micky had planted in the middle of a condemned urban neighborhood.
No one in their right mind got off the el and wandered into this area. It made some aspects of security relatively boring, but working with Slick Micky offered lots of other opportunities for excitement.
Jim would bet his generous pension one of those opportunities had brought the boss in here tonight.
“I’ve got a problem,” Micky said.
Jim sipped his coffee, waiting for the rest of the story, hoping this would mesh with his prickling sense of oncoming danger.
“One of the girls wants to leave.”
“Not the first time.”
“True,” Micky agreed. “But this one is different.”
More silence, which Jim filled with speculation. Smuggling by its covert nature and Micky’s unique system turned strangers into family, creating a stability most of them had never had. When one of them left Slick Micky’s team – mules, security, or even a supplier – everyone felt it.
But the boss didn’t usually worry. Routes and customers were easy enough to cover, and there were always more girls eager for the safety and steady work Slick Micky’s operation provided.
“I want you to go with her.”
“What?” Jim mentally reorganized schedules and came up with gaping holes. “If she needs help moving, we’ve got guys who can handle that.”
“She might actually need some heavy lifting.” Micky seemed to think that over. “But what she really needs is your protection.”
“This place needs protection.” Everyone on his security detail was solid and battle-tested, but he wasn’t about to leave the heart of Chicago’s smuggling operation vulnerable. “We’re on a skeleton crew for the holidays already.”
“You got a feeling you’re not telling me about?”
Jim paused, his mug halfway to his mouth. “Nothing concrete.” Only the boss knew about his extra instincts. They rarely discussed the weird sixth sense Jim had honed to a fine point during his years with the Army. Jim’s new skill most likely resulted from the juice: the military’s nutritional supplement that was meant to enhance a soldier’s performance in combat.
Several dangers of juicing were just coming to light, and while Jim had gained the ability to predict the future as it related to incoming risk and threat, most of the reported side effects weren’t as helpful. From post-traumatic stress disorder to actual mind control, thousands of warriors had been wronged by the unethical medical practices of the developer, Dr Leo Kristoff.
The pieces clicked into place. Lorine must be ready to move. The woman had joined the team of mules running sugar and coffee for Slick Micky in order to provide for and protect her young son. Just a few months ago, they’d learned that she’d graduated Harvard medical school and had once enjoyed a reputation as a brilliant researcher in her own right. Until she’d turned on her uncle to expose the dangers of his nutritional-supplement juicing experiments.
More recently, he’d heard through the grapevine that she had her eye on a rural place south of the city, so her son could grow up with fresh air and sunshine.
“So what’s not concrete?”
Jim shrugged. “My radar’s been humming, but I can’t nail down anything in particular. Threat or target.” But when he thought of Lorine, his danger sense jumped to full alert. She had one of the more complex smuggling routes, through a rough neighborhood, with high-level competition. “What are you hearing?”