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Dear Reader,
Remember the opening scene of my account, the attack on Dr. Bickel’s lab? The next chapters of my narrative occurred about six months prior to that. I was closing out my third year as an employee at Sandia, still working on Dr. Prochanski’s team, and studying hard for my PMP exam.
It was March, early spring. Spring in New Mexico is wonderful, but spring winds are not. I’m not grousing about gentle breezes. Oh, no. I’m talking fifty-mile-an-hour gales. It was a blustery spring day like the one I described above. I blew into our building on a blast of freezing wind and set to work making coffee.
And just like that, the last day I worked at Sandia began like any other.
One of my responsibilities was to take notes during our department’s formal, unclassified meetings. I used my Sandia-issued laptop and typed the notes as the meeting took place. Before the meeting, I would pass out the agenda, which consisted of business left over from previous meetings, action items due at the present meeting, and items Dr. P told me to schedule for discussion.
That morning I passed out the agenda and waited for Dr. P to start the meeting. Nothing out of the normal there. What was out of the ordinary was that only Dr. P and Dr. Bickel were scheduled to attend the meeting. Dr. P had directed me to uninvite the other scientists and techs on the team.
That’s when my antennae went up. Since only Dr. P and Dr. Bickel were scheduled to attend this meeting, I figured a confrontation was looming.
Scary.
I smelled trouble in the air, but I knew enough to keep out of it. I positioned myself in the corner of the room, away from the conference table. Out of line-of-sight.
Dr. Bickel entered the conference room first, seated himself, and looked around. “Where is everyone, Gemma?” He appeared tense and tired, and I was surprised when he spoke to me so familiarly. I didn’t think he had noticed me, sitting in the corner, ready to take notes.
I cleared my throat. “I’m certain the, um, other attendees will be along shortly, Dr. Bickel.”
I flicked a second glance at him. He was not one to care overmuch about his personal appearance, but I was again surprised and a bit concerned at how disheveled and tired he appeared. Exhausted.
And yet he’d been out of the lab a great deal in the past several weeks. I presumed that when people weren’t at work, they were resting up at least part of that time. Dr. Bickel’s appearance was puzzling, because he looked worn to a frazzle. I wondered if he were experiencing personal or family problems.
Does he even have a family?
I couldn’t remember him ever mentioning anyone, but then he wasn’t one for chitchat, personal or otherwise.
Dr. Bickel stared at the conference room clock. It read 10 a.m. straight up and he and I were still the only meeting participants in the room. Then he turned penetrating eyes on me.
I bent my head toward my keyboard and kept it there, but from under my lashes I observed Dr. Bickel nod to himself. To no one in particular he murmured, “And so it begins.”
Dr. P charged into the conference room at exactly 10:05, his big, bullish presence filling the doorway. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor,” he boomed.
Did I detect a note of scorn in Dr. P’s greeting?
Dr. Bickel said nothing. His expression was as impassive as mine was.
I shrank farther into the corner.
Someone followed Dr. P into the room. I stopped breathing when I saw who it was. General Cushing, smiling her shark-toothed smile, stepped inside the conference room and waited until Dr. P closed the door behind her.
It was only the second time I had encountered General Cushing. She hadn’t changed much in the two years since our first meeting—and neither had my visceral reaction to her. My sense of self-preservation kicked in. I licked my suddenly dry lips.
Of course I hadn’t known she would be attending the meeting—she wasn’t on the invitee list, after all. Apparently, Dr. Bickel hadn’t known she would be attending either. His expression turned to stone.
General Cushing, for her part, locked eyes with him as Dr. P ushered her to a seat opposite Dr. Bickel. Dr. P took the seat next to her. The general’s and Dr. P’s backs were angled toward me.
“Imogene. I wasn’t expecting to see you today.” One corner of Dr. Bickel’s mouth turned up a fraction. I halfway expected his stony face to split from the effort.
“It’s lovely to see you again, Danny.”
I couldn’t see Cushing’s and Dr. P’s faces now that they were seated—I was in the corner behind them and off to their left, after all—but I shriveled, visualizing General Cushing’s smile growing wider, her pointed, sharky teeth gleaming.
And what was all this “Imogene” and “Danny” business?
Dr. P coughed into his hand. “Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, let’s call this meeting to order, shall we?”
Dr. Bickel said nothing; Dr. P’s fingers fluttered with the papers in front of him. After a moment, he opened a manila folder and extracted a document that he passed across the table.
Dr. Bickel did not reach for it. He did not so much as glance at it. He simply stared—with contempt, I might add—in General Cushing’s direction. I could not see Cushing’s expression, but she kept her back ramrod straight.
Dr. Prochanski’s big voice echoed in the nearly empty room. “Dr. Bickel, your involvement in the research and development work of the AMEMS lab has been outstanding. I appreciate your contribution to our breakthrough, the successful development of the world’s first-ever smart, multi-functional nanobots.”
Whoa! I knew the work in the AMEMS lab had been racing toward a notable success, but it was all very hush-hush. I had heard rumors, but I was not cleared to know exactly what that success might be.
I was troubled, however, by how Dr. P addressed Dr. Bickel. The way Dr. P phrased it, Dr. Bickel was only a gear in the AMEMS machinery, a useful but replaceable cog. I might not be the sharpest stick in the stack, but I knew from Sandia’s welcome of him that Dr. Bickel’s theories and work were what drove the lab.
Right then my admiration for Dr. P slipped a notch.
Dr. P continued, “Under my leadership, the work of the AMEMS lab has flourished. Our results have attracted the admiration and attention of many in the federal government. Of course, I am humbled but gratified that our government has taken notice of my lab.”
Wait. What?
It almost sounded like Dr. P was taking credit for Dr. Bickel’s work?
He continued, “It is now time to take the next step and apply our work to an arena where it is much needed.”
“Oh, yes,” General Cushing murmured. Staring at the back of her head, I could still picture pointy teeth sliding over plump lips and oily words slipping out from between them. “The Pentagon has agreed to fully fund the next leg of AMEMS development. They are quite enthusiastic. We will enhance Dr. Prochanski’s staff with our best and brightest minds and accelerate the rate of nanobot production.”
“Not with me, you won’t.”
Dr. Bickel, growing as red as his fading hair must once have been, pushed away from the table and stood up. The chair in which he’d been sitting rolled away from the table and banged into the wall.
“I refuse to participate. My contract with Sandia stipulates that none of my research is to be transferred to the military. You already know, dear Imogene, that I will not allow you to appropriate any part of my work for military or ‘national security’ purposes. The matter is closed.”
As though to punctuate his last word, Dr. Bickel stormed from the conference room and slammed the door behind him.
Yikes!
My hands froze on my laptop’s keyboard.
“That went quite as you predicted, Doctor,” General Cushing purred.
Cushing drew her chair closer to Dr. P’s. The intimate manner in which she bent her head toward Dr. P and he leaned toward her made me want to upchuck. I forced myself to keep typing, “10:24 a.m. Dr. Bickel left the meeting,” while listening.
“Yes. Dr. Bickel is nothing if not predictable.”
“And how will you manage without Dr. Bickel’s cooperation?” I could visualize her words oozing through the gate of her spiky, white teeth.
Dr. P chuckled. “During Dr. Bickel’s entire tenure at Sandia he has kept two sets of data—one set he ‘allowed’ me to access and one he thinks he has hidden from me. He believes he has kept his progress secret, but he has not.”
He leaned closer to Cushing.
Gag.
“The bots he has developed are adaptive, cutting edge, as you wished, and I have taken pains to copy all of his data—his hidden data. He doesn’t know it, but his every movement in the lab has been recorded. Since he refuses to cooperate with us, I will simply assign him to other tasks and we will carry on his work without him.”
My esteem for Dr. P crashed to the ground.
Cushing thought for a moment, tapping a fingernail on the conference room table. “Doctor, oh, my dear Petrel, I have quite an unsettled feeling about all this. The nanobots are too precious, too important to trust to Dr. Bickel in his present state of mind. I sense that we need to protect them, perhaps remove them from Dr. Bickel’s oversight sooner than we planned. What do you think?”
Dr. Prochanski nodded vigorously. “If you think so, then yes. Of course, Dr. Bickel might present a problem when we do—he has many powerful friends in the scientific community, you know, and he would likely raise an outcry. I take it you’ve managed the contractual issues he spoke of so that the legal end is covered?”
Instead of answering, Cushing sighed and murmured, “Still, perhaps we should consider whether if, at this time, Dr. Bickel has served his purpose altogether.”
Huh. What?
It was spoken so carelessly, so cavalierly, that its import took a moment to sink in. My hands slowed.
Dr. P didn’t need a moment, though. “I confess that I have similar concerns. I’m confident that, with the proper resources, I can oversee the development of the nanobots to the next level and, as we’ve discussed previously, we should really consider how to, ah, remove Dr. Bickel, er, permanently.”
I wasn’t typing anymore. My hands shook on the keyboard.
Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
And then a second chill washed down my back as I realized how stupid I’d been.
Neither of them realizes that I am still in the room—directly behind them, overhearing every word of their whispered conversation!
I should have stood and excused myself as soon as Dr. Bickel had stormed out. But it was too late! It was too late to excuse myself now.
I swallowed and forced my quivering fingers to move over my laptop’s keyboard, but I wasn’t typing. Instead I was berating myself for getting into this mess—and I was scrambling to figure out how in the bloody blue blazes I was going to get out.
Snap.
My game face clicked into place and my mind scrambled. I pulled up several bookmarked pages and kept my eyes on the laptop’s screen.
With my eyes on the screen and my “who, me?” look locked in place, I coughed. I coughed the teeniest, tiniest little cough I could manage.
Cushing swiveled her chair to confront me. “Oh, dear, Dr. Prochanski. What have we here?” She asked her question with sickening sweetness, but I pretended not to notice and I didn’t look up, seemingly engrossed in the pages before me.
“Gemma.”
I looked around, affecting confusion. “I’m sorry, Doctor. Did you need something?” My tone was apologetic and every bit as sickeningly sweet as Shark Face’s.
Cushing raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here, Gemma?”
I had the grace (and the foresight) to blush. “Oh, I simply take the meeting minutes, ma’am, but I stopped taking them when Dr. Bickel left. Was that a mistake?”
She smiled and flashed her pointy teeth. “Then what have you been doing the last few minutes, Gemma?”
She wasn’t buying what I was selling.
I blushed again, looked down, and stammered, “Just, um, things, ma’am. Nothing important.”
Cushing held out her hand and snapped her fingers. “Let me see.”
“Dr. P?” I appealed to him, but found only a troubled skepticism in his eyes.
“Hand her your laptop, Gemma. Now.”
With feigned reluctance, I handed it into Cushing’s grasp. She skewered me with a triumphant look and turned her eyes to my screen. Only to frown.
“What is this?” she demanded.
Dr. P glanced over her shoulder and glowered. “Answer the general, Gemma.”
I stared at my folded hands. “It’s Pinterest, ma’am.”
“What is . . . Pinterest?” she hissed.
“I, um, I—”
She doesn’t know what Pinterest is? Does she live under a rock?
“It’s, uh, like a picture-posting and sharing website. People create boards of what they’re interested in, you know, stuff they like. I-I like history and like to collect black and white photographs.” I gestured toward my laptop. “Those are, um, early images of New Mexico’s Pueblo Indians. It’s-it’s a hobby.”
I bowed my head, but I could still feel Cushing’s dead, dark shark eyes gauging me, weighing what I’d said. Assessing the threat.
I kept my expression neutral and sent my heart into survival mode. I went “there,” into that safe, distant place, instinctively. After all, I’d survived much worse than Cushing.
What is this, Gemma?
That’s my diary, Genie! It’s private! You have no right—
Your diary? Why, what do you have to write about? You’re the most boring person I know.
Give it to me! I shrieked. Aunt Lucy wasn’t home. No one could hear me. Or help me.
I grabbed at my diary—the one place my twelve-year-old heart felt safe to confide its secrets and feelings—but my sister yanked it out of my reach.
Don’t tell me what I do and don’t have a right to do, Gemma, you inferior thing, she sneered. Then her visage turned uglier. Wait. Have you been writing about me?
She began to scan through my precious book. I made another, desperate, grab for it. This time, Genie slapped my cheek. The crack of her open palm rang in my ears and I recoiled, my hand covering my stinging skin.
Was it bad luck that she turned to the worst possible page she could have found? When she finished reading what I’d written about her she smiled.
Yes, Dear Reader, I’d seen evil smiles before.
Her smile growing wider, my sister studied me. Why, I’m surprised at you, Gemma. You have more insight than I gave you credit for.
Still watching me, her eyes gleaming, she began tearing the pages from my diary. Her breath quickened and I knew why: It gave Genie pleasure to make others suffer.
I screamed and threw myself at her, but she dodged away and kicked me. I stumbled and fell face down on the floor of our room.
That’s when Genie began beating me. With the book. With her fists. Blow after blow rained down on the back of my head. I squirmed and tried to get out from under her, but she knelt on me.
As you might imagine, a little diary won’t leave discernable marks on the back of one’s head. Neither will a twelve-year-old’s fists. She used both on me until she was exhausted.
Aunt Lu, Gemma’s got a terrible headache, Genie, full of solicitous concern, reported to our aunt that afternoon. I think you should give her some ibuprofen.
Aunt Lucy looked into my tear-stained eyes and down my throat. Does your throat hurt, Honey?
No, Aunt Lucy. Just my head.
Genie peeked from behind Aunt Lucy and smiled.
Oh, yes. I’d seen evil smiles before, and I knew how to survive them.
So that day in the conference room I had zero problem “conning” the general. I played the beaten, clueless role just fine, thank you very much.
Shark Face narrowed her eyes and changed tactics. She huffed. “Really, Dr. Prochanski. I’m surprised that you allow your employees to waste precious government resources on frivolous, non-work-related pursuits like this.”
He glared at me. “I didn’t think Sandia’s IT settings allowed access to social media.”
(Actually, Sandia doesn’t allow access to unsecured sites. Typing in a single “s” after “http” overcame that small hurdle.)
“I’m very disappointed in you, Gemma.”
Well, I was more disappointed in him than he would ever be of me.
I managed a, “I-I’m sorry, Dr. Prochanski. It won’t happen again,” without breaking a sweat.
He looked at Cushing and then back at me. “You may go, Gemma.” He handed me my laptop.
“Thank you, sir.”
At the end of the day I was about to shut down my computer when Dr. P appeared at his office door and called to me. “Gemma, I need to speak with you.”
I picked up a notebook and pen. When I entered his office, he, motioned to a chair in front of his desk.
He folded his hands on his desk and said, “Gemma, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but we are letting you go.”
I was stunned. Shocked. His tone was sincere, but I didn’t recognize the look in his eye. And I couldn’t process his words.
“I’m sorry? What do you mean?” Not an original response but, dismayed as I was, it was all I could come up with.
“The contract under which you were working has lost its funding, so your position here is terminated, I’m afraid. Effective immediately.”
They say the stages of grief and loss are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I was validating the first stage of that model.
“I-I-you can’t be serious? I’m sure the contract has enough money on it for two more years!” I knew it did; my company’s management kept me apprised of the state of the contract that funded my position with Sandia.
Aaaaand then there’s bargaining. I seemed to have skipped over anger for the moment.
“Is it something I’ve done? It can’t be that I was looking at Pinterest! Please let me fix this?”
“My dear Gemma, this is not a termination for cause. Your contract position has been eliminated. Budget cuts.”
His “my dear Gemma” grated over my nerves and I didn’t believe him. Not for a moment.
I was crushed, but I crammed my “cards-close-to-the-vest” onto my face and studied Dr. Prochanski. I was certain he saw nothing more than my normal, vacant expression.
But what did I see?
His eyes had narrowed when he said, “not a termination for cause.” His lips had stiffened and he’d glanced away, very briefly, when he said, “Your contract position has been eliminated.”
He was lying.
They were getting rid of me because of what I’d overheard him and General Cushing discussing in the conference room. What I heard was important, I reasoned, still masking the hurt of my smashed ego.
It didn’t matter, though, did it? They were getting rid of me and I couldn’t do a thing about it.
He hesitated and then added, “I’m sure this topic will be covered in your exit interview, Gemma, but the policy is serious enough to bear reiteration: Everything you have read, seen, and heard in your work here is classified and cannot be spoken of outside these walls. To anyone.”
Dr. P’s voice had the tiniest edge to it, and I was certain he’d placed emphasis on the word “heard.”
“I’ll pack my things,” I said, with no emotion.
“Very good.” He picked up his phone. “Please send security to do the exit interview and escort Ms. Keyes off base.”
I stumbled back to my desk and started emptying my drawers of personal items. I found an empty box by the photocopy machine and loaded it up.
“Gemma?”
I glanced up, still keeping my expression blank. Dr. Bickel approached the cubicle wall fronting my desk, his thinning red hair more disheveled than normal. Something in his demeanor spoke of stress, and I could feel tension oozing from him. His body language was like a guitar string wound far too tight.
“Yes?” That single word was as detached as I could make it.
“I heard what happened, Gemma. I’m very sorry.”
How? How could you have heard? Dr. P told me I was being let go only moments ago.
I allowed none of those questions—or my astonishment—to flit across my countenance.
“Thank you.” I added a photo of Aunt Lucy to the box. I was still cool. Still in control.
“If you need a recommendation, I would be pleased to write one for you.”
I lifted guarded eyes to his, surprised to see compassion there. Was it possible that he had no idea of my “other” role in this department? That I’d spied on him? Again, I merely whispered, “Thank you.”
“Here’s my card. I’ve written my personal phone number and email address on it.”
As Dr. Bickel leaned over the cubicle wall and placed the card on my desk, the officer from Sandia’s security department came through the door. I glanced in the officer’s direction and then back to Dr. Bickel.
At the last possible moment I leaned toward Dr. Bickel and mouthed, “Watch your back.”
I don’t know what prompted me to issue such a cryptic warning, but I didn’t regret it. I turned away from him and waited for the security officer’s approach.
As simply and as quickly as that, my career—my whole life!—went down in flames. I drove home and sat in my dark living room.
Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.
~~**~~
