“Then, of course, there are the subtle differences that make us unique from each other. These are the genes that belong to only you"—she nodded at the Nordic man—"or you.” She smiled warmly at the Asian, who seemed to be drifting. “Or more specifically, to your family. There aren’t many that are different. We’re all pretty much the same animal.”
Berger made a subtle cutting motion with his hand. “This is all very interesting,” he said. “Would you talk a bit, please, about the opportunity we’re offering?”
“Almost there, thanks. I was about to tell these gentlemen about the psi gene.”
A silence descended upon the group. “Please go on,” the Asian man said. Now she had his attention. Suddenly she had everyone’s attention.
“We’ve discovered a particular subject—the subject you just viewed on that video—who was born with a rather remarkable gene. This gene, which is either dormant or does not exist at all in most people, actually produces a protein, which acts in a particular way, on a particular cellular path. This mechanism of action has to do with the transfer of heat at a microscopic level, and it allows the subject to influence her natural environment physically through thought.”
“Amazing,” the Nordic man said. “The psi gene, you say?”
“From the word psychic. Psi encompasses a lot of different things—telepathy, clairvoyance, psychic healing, precognition, to name only a few. But what we’re concerned with here is what’s commonly called psychokinesis—”
“I’m not sure I understand,” the Asian man interrupted. “What exactly are you offering us?”
Berger motioned for Cruz to sit. “The investment opportunity of a lifetime,” he said. “The possibilities here are limitless—literally as far as your imagination can reach. Government and military applications, certainly. But medical, corporate, and even nonprofit entities could benefit tremendously. This is, quite literally, a revolution waiting to happen. But to get there, we’re going to need more capital. Research and development is tremendously expensive, as you both know.”
He took out another two packets from his case and handed them to the men across the table. “This will explain in greater detail what we’re going to do, and what we need from you. I’ll talk about that in a moment. But first, I want to show you one more video clip. This one is a little more… impressive. I think it will give you a good idea why we’re so excited about this opportunity.”
Steven Berger flipped open the little screen once again. The small party gathered around it to watch.
This was Berger’s favorite part. He kept stealing glances at the two men, at their faces, full of wonder, awe, and disbelief. Even Cruz was riveted, though she’d seen it many times before.
The scene played out across the little screen. Nobody spoke, moved, even breathed until it was over.
After another five minutes the screen went black. They sat back in silence for a long moment.
“Take this information back to your people,” Berger said quietly. He handed both of them a Helix business card with his name and private contact information across the front. “We’ll be entertaining partnership offers from as many as seven major players.” He let the pause go just long enough, waited for the beat. “I’ll begin the bidding at five hundred million.”
Across the table, Cruz tore off a fresh piece of bread. Smiling to herself in satisfaction, she bit into it with a vengeance.
—17—
Sarah awoke with a scream lodged thickly in her throat. It had come again, the dream that used to plague her night after night. The howling machines with metal tubes and wires swarming across her face, webbing pinning her down, the smell of metal and burning flesh. Needles dripping clear fluid. The screams. Darkness, and she was lost! It was hot, so hot she was gasping for air, and she knew she had brought this upon herself, that she was the cause of the burning.
Dream images faded into a pattern of pink, swirling dots. She swallowed and blinked, fighting against the fear that rose up inside, fighting against her own mind. / know where I am. I’m in my room. Not in the bad place.
But how could she know for sure? The room was pitch-black when she slept. They had kept it that way on purpose to punish her at first, and as she slid deeper into her own private darkness they hadn’t bothered to change things. Not that it would have mattered then.
But her world had shifted now with all the swiftness of a flash flood. She thought of the woman who had been coming to see her, and it gave her heart a forgotten surge of hope. She allowed herself a moment to wonder what it might be like to be normal. But what did that really mean? To be like the others she used to know before the gray fog came, Aimee who talked to herself and Shawn who picked his hands until he bled?
No. They were different too.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight and waited for the voices, but they did not come. Her mind had been unusually clear lately; she could function without the fog creeping up on her, and that made her feel uneasy. She was not used to such freedom, such long stretches where she had nothing but her own thoughts as entertainment. Maybe she should start taking the pills again? What would they do to her? Would they stop having to give her the shots? Would she have to go back to the bad place?
She heard a sudden noise. Something shifted nearby. Memories floated to the surface and she was transported to another time, another place. Disorientation. Nothingness. Whispers of words too faint to understand. Smoke touched her face, heat singed her skin.
Her arms and legs were held down. She stretched out her finger and fumbled for something, anything to tell her she was still alive. Somewhere in the distance she thought she could hear screaming again. Terror flooded her body and for a single moment she thought she might lose control.
When the lights flickered on she was blinded and hopelessly disoriented. The flashback had been vivid and had almost put her over the edge. She blinked as shapes swam into focus, and held on with all her might, biting back her scream.
“You’re awake,” the doctor said. She flinched. He was standing just inside the door. “Good. It’s time we talked this out. Long past time, actually.” He bent to undo the straps on her wrists, hesitated. “There are three men tight outside the door. You’ll behave?”
She nodded. His skin was slick with sweat. She had never seen him with a single hair out of place until now, and it disturbed her more than his expression.
She studied him as her pounding heart shook her thin frame. His face had changed for her, and something deep inside had broken because of it. His face, a source of warmth and comfort for so long, was now cold and the light had gone from his eyes.
She reminded herself once again that she was the cause of the change. She had been very bad. She had done something so terrible, so unforgivable, that it could never be taken back. Never.
The straps fell away, and she sat up on her narrow mattress. This room had a dresser in it, and a lamp on a table by the bed, but the walls were bare. An upholstered chair faced her. There was a window across the room, with a shade pulled down and taped tightly to the window trim, to keep any light from entering. She knew there were heavy bars on the other side.
Dr. Evan Wasserman sat down in the chair across from her and crossed his legs, being careful to keep the creases in his pant legs straight. He smoothed the fabric with his palms and folded his hands in his lap. He patted down his hair with one hand. Then he looked at her, his gaze searching her features. His eye twitched. She could not tell whether he was satisfied with what he found there.