“So Marylou, you’re a contributor to the warrior children project, being well aware that they are integral to the overthrowing of President Yin and the government. You are also charged with funding the bio-technical development, the nano-technical infusion of embryos, and technological manipulation beyond those allowable under lawful boundaries.” David read from the charge sheet before him. The list was extensive, so he and Jonah had agreed that he’d work on the prosecution of the warrior program and offences against the government while others would focus on other aspects, including the financial practices of Marylou and her cohorts.
Marylou stared at him.
“Fine, we have enough evidence to prove the charges, Marylou. If you happen to have any extenuating circumstances, we’d be more than happy to hear them.”
She sat there, resolute, and David knew any further discussion would be pointless.
“Fine. We know that you are not the apex of this organization, but you have infused some fifty-seven million credits in the last year to the cause. You organized, retrofitted, and allowed the building of a base within the World Bank, outside the terms and conditions of your position. You also funneled at least fifteen percent of all unallocated funds the bank earned into the cause.”
Her eyes darted left and right, as if waiting for someone to enter and save her. Her lips were a thin, white line as her fingers clutched convulsively at the small necklace she wore.
David stood and made his way around to her, settling on the edge of the desk. “Look, Marylou, I want to help you, but you’re going to have to give us something if you want us to cut you a break.”
Now a smile split her face, feral as she moved, fingers twisting the necklace. She aimed the tiny, sharp implement at him, but he was trained to move quickly, so shoving off the table, he captured her wrist, twisted, and when she squeaked the item dropped to the floor. He kicked it away with a tsking sound.
“Fine, we’ll take that as you have nothing left to say.”
Jonah had sat through the short meeting then rose. “Guards!”
They entered, cuffed the woman, and lifted her as she started to scream at them, swearing and threatening their annihilation as she was led from the room.
David bent and retrieved the dart, taking great care to avoid the tip, and slid it into a small bag for Michael to test later.
David turned to Jonah. “Better organize to bring in the other one.”
They’d checked his identity with his identity chips, and the name that flicked up left him surprised: Carlos Phenja, a young financier and reasonably new to the World Bank.
He was marched in between two guards, his face set into a sneering mask.
David had decided on a different approach with this youngster, uncomfortably aware that something was off. He’d invited Dr. Aros, the psychiatrist who’d joined the multi-disciplined team they’d assembled, to sit in on the interrogation.
Once the man was settled, David scooped up the desktop scanner attached to the table, checked his fingerprints, and frowned as the system glitched on application. The reading flashing up: Identity Confirmed. Subject Deceased. Override Required.
Alarm flashed through him. It had never done that before.
A nod to Jonah and he rose and opened the door, admitting Michael and Dr. Aros. They settled into their seats, and without a word, David handed Aros the scanner screen. His brother frowned at the error messaged displayed on the screen.
“Let’s run a DNA scan then.”
At Michael’s comment, the young man’s eyes widened in alarm. Definitely something odd here.
“No!” Layers of panic settled on their subject’s face, betrayed that there was something to find.
Michael rose, reaching into his pocket for his small medi-scanner, and the Phenja tried to rear away.
David moved around the table, anchoring Phenja as he fought Michael, shoulders twisting, body bucking.
Michael swore as the man bounced, catching him under the jaw. “Dammit, I’ll tranq you if necessary.” He shoved the reader into his arm, the input syringe darting out and capturing a sample, which he then connected to the desk scanner unit.
Error messages flared on the screen. “DNA incompatible. What the fuck is going on?” Michael bent and entered a short sequence before sucking in a deep breath, the action
catching David by surprise as much as the draining of color from his brother’s face. “You’re Carlos Phenja?”
The youngster stared at Michael, no smile. No way to decode whatever emotions were rolling around inside him.
David stepped around to read the screen. “Subject deceased. What the hell?” Michael pierced Phenja. “He’s dead. So, who are you?”
The smile on Phenja’s face, cold and malicious, stopped David’s heart for an instant.
“Someone you wish you’d never found.”
The lightning change in the personality confused as much as terrified David. This wasn’t a straightforward form of evil, it was a new and infinitely dangerous kind.
He pressed the communicator button connected to the guards outside the door. “Call for Dr. Windhower. She might be able to shed some light on what’s happening.”
They waited in silence, minutes passing, each taking on the effect of an hour, leaving them time to consider individually the variety of reasons for the anomaly.
A knock came at the door. David called out, “Enter!”
Sara, his brother’s friend and a specialist medic, slid through the partially open door.
“You called for me?” She cast her glance around the room then blinked rapidly upon seeing the young man before her. “I know you, don’t I?” Her brow furrowed as she pointed a finger at Phenja, and David’s confusion grew.
“We have a problem with ID. It reads as deceased.” His bald statement led to her mouth opening in an ‘O.’
“Let me see.” She hurried to the scanned. “Oh no! Who? Who did this? Was it Colvert or one of his cronies?” Fury etched every syllable of her speech and the youngster, Phenja, simply smiled.
“What?” Jonah groused, and Sara turned to their superior.
“I know this patient, because he was presented as a candidate for cybe-therapy. I couldn’t allow it as he had a degenerative disease. Let me check my files, to be sure.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew a tiny tablet device. She tapped, stopped, then added more information. “A degenerative cognitive disease making him an unsuitable candidate. The family wanted to offer inducements, which I could not allow. I made arrangements for palliative care and sent him home. Or at least the person whose body you inhabit, wasn’t it? Because you couldn’t have survived with that poor prognosis for more than eight weeks. That was maybe eighteen months ago.”
Sara advanced, swept aside Phenja’s hair, and sucked in a deep breath, then beckoned to David. Now that they knew what they were looking for, it was easy to find the tell-tale cues. Stitch marks, still an angry red, circled his head under the hairline, and David had to gulp down the wave of nausea threatening to swamp him.
What are we dealing with? But the truth, as fantastical as it seemed, was there. Surgery. His throat narrowed, and speaking posed a problem. “A transplant?”
Sara turned back to the assembled team. “Brain transplant. I’d read about it. It would be right up there with the work of Colvert and his predilection for trying new and avant-garde procedures.”