The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1) (21 page)

Latham watched the captain with a mix of curiosity and disgust. It was unclear to him how a slob like him could maneuver himself into the position of power, given the complexity of the current political landscape. He made a mental note to trace the captain’s relatives to see if there was someone in the position to exert such influence.

“Well,” he said, “first of all I’d like to assure you that we all work for the same purpose. All I’m asking you—”

“And what purpose would that be?” Guy interrupted him. “I work for the Police Department. What exactly do you do and how you were even able to get this interview is a complete mystery to me. So either get to the point or get the fuck out of my office.”

“Let’s cut the bullshit then,” said Latham. “We both work for certain individuals known as Alphas. I’d like you to point me in the direction of a certain English individual you know as Alpha One.”

He watched the captain’s features tense when he heard the name. A bright red color started spreading across Brennan’s massive neck.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, standing. “Now get out of my office.”

“A long time ago when I was in high school, I wanted to become a shrink,” said Latham, not moving from his chair. “Everybody told me I’d be great at it. I just had this natural gift of reading people. See? Even now I can see you’re lying just by watching your eyes darting back and forth. Not to mention that beautiful deep red color spreading across your face. Yeah, I would make a good shrink. Alas, we never get what we want.”

“Get out of my office before I have you thrown out,” said Brennan quietly.

“Sure,” said Latham, still not moving. “However, it might be useful for you to know, that the mayor also played tough first. Not until I introduced some wonderful chemical compounds to his body. After he was paralyzed for a couple of minutes while feeling as if he were being burned alive he had some time to reconsider.”

The captain clenched his fists but didn’t say anything.

“You surely know who I’m working for, or else you would have thrown me out already,” continued Latham, “and I didn’t introduce any toxins to you via a simple handshake like I did with the mayor because I think you’re a quicker learner. But if I’m wrong, hey, I can pay a visit to your daughters or your ailing mother. So please, sit the fuck down, and let’s have a conversation.”

Brennan stood there for a few more seconds, his big features contorted into a mask of fury, then he unclenched his fists, took a deep breath, and lowered himself into the chair. It squeaked under his massive weight.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” he said quietly. “You and I are just pawns in this game. Pawns get sacrificed. That’s what always happens.”

“Don’t get poetic on me,” said Latham. “I need you to tell me everything you know about the Englishman. Tell me who he is and where he is.”

“I don’t know much. It’s not how this works and you know it. I’m only aware of what’s needed to be done, and I know one person below me. All I know is the Englishman is indeed a man and actually from England.”

“Where in England can I find him?”

“I don’t know where he comes from,” said Brennan, “but he’s no longer in England. I think he’s here, in New York, and I think he’s been living in New York for a long time.”

“How do you contact him?”

“You don’t. He always contacts me. It used to be less frequently, but now it’s about once a week or so.”

“Here’s what I need you to do,” said Latham, getting up. “Next time he contacts you, I need you to tell him that you have some vital piece of information that you can’t convey over the phone.”

“He won’t meet me in person,” said the captain. “He made it clear from the start.”

“I don’t expect him to,” said Watkins, “but if you’re convincing enough he’ll send someone else. And that someone will know more than you do. Just arrange the meeting, let me know the details, and I’ll take care of the rest. Do we have a deal?”

“Sure,” said Brennan, staring at his big hands.

“Oh, one more thing,” said Latham, stopping by the door. “I need to know the name of the person reporting to you.”

•     •     •

Kowalsky first met Greg Constantine when they were still in high school. They weren’t really close, but Chuck’s house was only a block south from Greg’s, and the two always ended up in the same motley crew of characters looking for what all teenagers look for, girls, booze, and trouble. After high school they lost each other’s contact as Chuck went to the academy. A few years later when Chuck ran into the handsome Greek, Greg was a rising star with the Bureau well on track to be the youngest deputy director of the New York district. They were friends since.

As Chuck sat in a small Italian restaurant waiting for Greg, he went over the story in his head for the millionth time. No matter how much he toned it down it still sounded crazy. Ryan believed him, of course, but that was different. Convincing the now district director of the impending coup would take some serious facts.

Constantine arrived right on time, dressed in an immaculate custom-made suit and a fashionably thin tie. He looked more like a career politician than a federal agent.
But you don’t make the youngest district director without being a bit of a politician,
thought Kowalsky, watching his friend.

“Have you ever heard of ISCD?” asked Chuck after they exchanged pleasantries.

“That’s an odd question,” said Greg, his dark, almost black eyes scanning Chuck’s face.

“I’m in an odd situation,” he said, “and I need to figure out whether I’m onto something big and ugly.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of them,” said Greg, “along with less than a dozen other people in this country. Or so I thought.”

Chuck felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He had tried to contact Mike’s handler at the ISCD, but the number that Connelly gave him was no longer in service. By now he was starting to doubt his decision to believe Mike’s story. To see Constantine take what he had to say seriously and not refer him to a psychiatrist was on the one hand refreshing. On another, it meant that the country was probably on the brink of upheaval and civil war.

When Chuck finished, Greg sat there without moving for some time, as if weighing his options.

“Well, the first thing I need to do is to notify the Secret Service that there’s an imminent threat to the President,” he said, “and if you’re wrong, I’m all but finished with the Bureau.”

“Greg,” said Chuck, “I just watched something I can only describe as a clean-up crew try to assassinate the guy. And the crazy thing is, they weren’t even the first to try.”

“Alright.” Greg stood. “Let’s go. I’ll notify the Secret Service, then we’ll have to move you and your guy to a secure location. Once you’re safe and sound, and I know I have people I trust watching your back, we can reach out to ISCD. I need to understand what the fuck’s going on.”

“But we already have a safe house,” said Chuck.

“Yeah, that’s what you thought last time, until you guys burned people with napalm. From now on we’re playing by my rules.”

“I guess you’re right.” Chuck threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat and got up. As a cop, taking orders wasn’t a new concept for him, but he couldn’t help but feel this was so much more than just a temporary suspension of independent decision-making. His gut was telling him that in the place the world was going to, personal liberties were low on everyone’s list.

Jason watched Engel’s face as the board members raised their hands. The billionaire’s smile was easy and relaxed. A smile of a man who always got what he wanted.

Not this time. In the middle of the neat row of outstretched arms, like a missing tooth in a big smile, was a gap.

“Steven, Steven, Steven,” said Alex, his smile turning venomous. “Are you with us or daydreaming?”

“He’s with us, alright,” said Jason, standing, “but he can’t vote. As a matter of fact, none of you can.”

“Please enlighten us, Jason.”

“Article 137.2 of the corporate by-laws,” said Jason, looking Engel in the eye, “shareholders in control of more than 55% of the company have the right to dismiss the board of directors without notice. Between my 54 and Mr. Poznyak’s 1.2% I believe we just made the cut. As a courtesy I did send you all a notice. You’ll find it in your offices when you get back.”

“Well, maybe you are your father’s son,” said Alexander, “I’ll enjoy putting you in jail so much more now.”

Jason watched him turn on his heels and leave the room without another word. The rest of the former board members followed, casting angry looks at him.

“I’m going to need my diapers changed,” said Poznyak after only two of them were left in the room, “and rent a bed in a place that takes cash and doesn’t ask questions.”

“Thank you, Steven,” said Jason seriously, “for everything. I owe you.”

“Sure thing. Just buy me a nice tombstone when the time comes,” said Steven, stifling a nervous laughter, “in all seriousness, it was satisfying to wipe the smile off that smug face.”

“Well,” said Jason, “can I see the three lower floors now?”

Leibowitz met them by the elevator and handed Jason a small magnetic card.

“Temporary access card,” he explained. “We’ll upload your biometrics into the system later today.”

Floor #18 was different than the others. Instead of opening into the big hangar-like floor, the elevator doors led them into a small room with a huge loud fan pushing brutally cold air. The doors leading to the main room were frosted over.

“You might want to put these on,” said Daniel, pointing to the row of fur parkas and matching mittens hanging on a wall. Jason looked at Steven and put his parka on.

Leibowitz leaned into the retina scanner, and the massive doors slowly opened, revealing a dark hangar inside. The air coming out of the room was so cold it almost hurt to breathe.

After a few moments when his eyes had a chance to adjust to the dim light, Jason stepped over the threshold, keeping one mitten-clad hand over his mouth to protect the skin. Neat rows of differently sized chrome-colored tanks stretched into what seemed an endless surreal field.

As they walked through the lab, their shoes making a crunching noise on the frost-covered floor, Jason felt as if in a dream. Some small windows on polished sides of containers revealed familiar animalistic shapes of frogs, mice, dogs, and chimps. Others offered a glimpse of forms so alien and bizarre, it was clear they weren’t birthed by Mother Nature.

“Hibernation research, as I’m sure you’ve guessed,” said Leibowitz, “one of the most advanced projects we’ve been working on. If we can figure out how to suspend life indefinitely, we might be able to prolong it forever. Or so we hope.”

“I think I’ve seen enough,” said Jason, his voice muffled by the mitten. “I hope the other two floors are not as cold as this.”

“The other two are much more fun,” said Poznyak, shivering in his parka.

They went back to the foyer room of the floor. The cold room felt as a hot sauna compared to the lab. Jason rubbed his numb hands trying to get the blood flowing again.

“What’s on the next floor?” he asked, taking his parka off.

“A shooting range,” said Leibowitz, smiling.

Like everything else in Asclepius Inc., the shooting range came with a twist. Jason looked in wonder at something that looked like a crazy mix of a machine gun and a crutch. Wires were hanging from the device, but as much as he looked, he couldn’t see anything even remotely resembling a trigger.

“How the hell does this work?” he finally asked.

“This is called a wet-wired weapon,” explained Steven, picking up the gun.

“What does it mean?”

“You put it on your arm.” Steven pushed his arm through the semi-circular openings and secured them, clicking the links in place. “Then these wires are surgically connected to your muscular system.

“Holy crap,” said Jason. “You cut the guy open and wire those things to his body?”

“Yes,” said Leibowitz, “and once the connection is established and you’re properly trained to use it, you will fire this weapon by simply thinking.”

“What do you mean by thinking?”

“Just like when you fire a regular gun. You don’t actually consciously say
I’m going to pull the trigger now.
You simply do. This works exactly the same. The gun becomes an extension of your body.”

“Wow.” Jason looked at the gun in amazement, “It sounds like science fiction.”

“It’s no longer fiction,” said Leibowitz, helping Steven take the gun off. “There were projects even at the end of last century that tried to figure out how to create that bridge between our bodies and machines. They were much more crude, of course, but in the nineties there were already some successful experiments where a paralyzed man would draw geometric shapes with a computer by thinking, through electrodes wired to his brain.”

“Such a pity,” said Jason, “that the first thing we make with this remarkable technology is a gun. Still, it’s amazing.”

“Well,” said Steven, unlocking the links and putting the gun back onto the shelf, “if you find this amazing, you are surely going to like the floor number twenty.”

The twentieth floor could pass for a car factory assembly line. At least until Jason noticed exoskeletons in various stages of completion propped on workbenches throughout the floor.

“This floor’s unofficial name is
the cyborg unit
,” said Leibowitz, smiling. “This is where the real magic happens. Let me show you.”

They went down the long row of benches until they came to a small circular desk. On top of it sat what looked like a gleaming motorcycle helmet. Poznyak picked it up and fumbled with something on the inside for a few seconds.

“You might want to put it on,” he said, smiling. “Just try not to make any sudden moves.”

Jason picked it up. It looked nothing like a motorcycle helmet on the inside. What he saw was a crazy landscape of microchips, a pair of soft goggles, and something that looked like a row of sharp needles.

“That looks like it’ll chew my head off the moment I stick it in,” he said nervously.