Cheating Time (2 page)

"They want it badly enough to sacrifice
their newborns' lives because they're convinced it's going to open
doors and give their little ones a leg up when it comes to riches
and fame." With an arrogant smile that revealed the manipulation
that I, President John Barone, was capable of, I shrugged and
feigned innocence when I said, "Of course, it doesn't hurt that I
let that little rumor get leaked."

"Now it seems getting the MicroPharm
implanted is the trendy thing to do… as if being like Selma,
everyone's sweetheart, is the most important thing every newborn's
mother can do for her child." I smiled again as I, for the
millionth time, walked through the plans I'd made. "I'm going to
use that to my advantage. We'll have these devices implanted into
as many citizens' hearts as we can get to agree to it. Age won't
matter. They'll be completely free, and there'll be tax credits
given to those who comply.

"Once a majority of the citizens have them,
we'll use the MicroPharm to improve the nation's healthcare and, by
default, the health statistics. We'll identify people who have
genetic anomalies and slowly but surely weed them from our nation's
landscape. I'll also use the implant to control the population.
People will no longer have more than one child, and that one
precious child will only be born when we know there's an inevitable
death of another of our citizens. Not before."

As if suddenly not believing what I was
saying, Manniless said, "And it can predict the future? Have you
been working too many hours, sir?"

I laughed. "I have been working too many
hours, but I'm not crazy. The MicroPharm holds in it the results of
each baby's longevity assessment, a genetic test that tells us
exactly what day they'll die decades before there's even the first
clue. Ten months before that death occurs, one lucky
lottery-winning family will have three months to conceive. If they
do, great. If not, their birth control will be reinitiated via the
MicroPharm, and we'll give the next couple a chance to become
parents."

Manniless sat in front of me, holding the
operative report as if it held the mysteries of the universe.
Maybe it does.
Finally, he laid it
out on my desk and leaned back.

"How have I not heard any of this before
now? I'm your special agent in charge. Theoretically, I should know
everything you know."

I shrugged. "A man has to have his
mysteries, Isaiah. Besides, I never thought Selma would go through
with all of this. I thought she'd back out at the last minute,
leaving millions of women following her lead and refusing to have
the implant inserted. Now that I have proof that she's allowed her
baby to go through the procedure, I'll unofficially
release
the report using TOR II, the very
information security onion that you claim makes it impossible for
the document's originators to be tracked.

"Once that report is public knowledge, we
won't be able to keep these MicroPharms stocked or operating room
space available there will be so many people demanding they be
insterted into their children's hearts. It'll be like taking candy
from a baby."

"Surely there are others who know what
you're planning. You won't be able to do this on your own," Isaiah
suggested.

"Of course there are. I have scientists all
over the nation who are prepared to sell their soul to the devil
and help me program these implants for population control and
healthcare maintenance. There will be a fine line I'll be made to
walk along with the Enoches and the Panzalis. I need their ideas.
Their ability to see the world in ways others can't isn't something
I can lose."

I couldn't help but feel a little smug about
all I'd been able to accomplish. Having a MicroPharm implanted in
any human being was something I'd thought would never come to
fruition. It's idealistic inventor, Selma Enoche, and her arrogant
grandfather, Peter Panzali, worried a little too much about the
ethics associated with the device and the technology it offered.
They worried—
rightfully so
—there
would be people who'd use it to decide who lived, who died, who was
worth having the nation's limited healthcare dollars used on.

When Selma agreed to implant it in the first
person's heart, it never occured to me she planned to implant it
into the heart of her very own baby, one she'd wanted for years. As
the scientist who'd invented the device, she decided it was her
responsibility to prove to the world just how safe it was. The only
way to do that was to let them see she was willing to offer up her
first and only child for the life-threatening procedure, the
nation's healthcare research project, and the ability to change the
face of preventative healthcare and ultimately the nation's
health.

It had taken a lot of innuendos on my part,
insinuations that her device would never really work as designed,
and suggestions that since the beginning of time researchers had
used themselves and their families as guinea pigs. I knew
her—
Sam and Peter
—well enough to
know that being too direct would be a problem. The foundation of my
master plan had to be laid surreptitiously. The fact that she'd
followed through so beautifully had given me insight on how best to
deal with Selma in the future.

The part I never could have expected was the
viral public frenzy that occured within seconds of Selma's press
conference where she announced her plans. Since that day, the
paparazzi had followed Selma's every move. Feeding the public's
fervor, Selma released to the public every hologram of the baby
made while in utero.

The image where the fetus contentedly sucked
her thumb while floating dreamily within Selma's womb became the
logo for the MicroPharm and within weeks was plastered on every
magazine, news cover, newspaper, and media outlet throughout the
nation. Just that quick, Selma's unborn baby replaced the Gerber
baby on baby foods and every other baby on every other product.

More important was the way the MicroPharm
became synonymous with products that could be trusted, products
that were safe even for the smallest and most innocent.

"Did you read the report?" I asked, looking
down at the paper Isaiah had laid out before me.

He shrugged. "I tried. It's a foreign
language to me. Give me computer code and I can do anything you
need me to do. Give me something like that and I'm lost. What about
you? Does any of it mean anything to you?"

I stared down at the report and began
reading the medical jargon. There were words I could pick out and
comprehend. There were others that left me grasping for their
meaning. After several passes, I decided when taken in as a whole,
I could get the gist of what had happened in the operating
room.

Basically, it said the MicroPharm had been
inserted into the septum of the heart, which was where it would
reside for Carles Anise Enoche's entire life. From the device,
there was a tube that connected it to a portacatheter, one that
would be used to inject the microparticle substances necessary for
the MicroPharm to compound the drugs that baby would need to
prevent illness or treat diseases.

Interesting was the fact that the newborn
underwent a corneal lens implant in addition to the MicroPharm.
That's not something that was ever shared with the public.
Or me.
I couldn't help but wonder
what type of advantages it would give her over her peers.
What secret project had Selma been working
on?
I made a mental note to find out what Selma and her
great-grandfather were up to and how I could use it myself.

Suddenly, it occured to me the report was
missing a critical piece of information: the longevity
assessment.

The goddamned longevity
assessment wasn't included.

"Isaiah, was there another page?" I asked,
jumping to my feet and slapping both of my hands on the desk.

Special Agent Manniless's smile faded. "No,
sir. This was all there was."

I picked up the report and read through it
one more time.

"
That
bitch!
" I glared at Manniless with a desperation I
rarely showed. "Can you hack into the longevity database and tell
me what the natural date of this baby's death will be?"

Manniless jumped up as fast as I had and
came around to my side of the desk.

"May I, sir?" he asked, nodding his forehead
toward my CPU?

I stepped to the side and watched while he
began typing on the virtual keyboard, as the hologram glimmered to
life above it, as cryptic messages flashed before me, causing
shadows to bounce off every surface in my office.

I wasn't a cyber-junkie like Isaiah, but I
knew what it meant when
Access
Denied
flashed before my eyes for the fifth time. Isaiah
cursed under his breath while he wiped a bead of sweat from his
forehead. An hour later, he still hadn't been able to gain
admission to the database that would tell us how long this baby
would live. Somehow I knew the date of her death was significant.
Special
.

The missing information and Selma's and
Sam's heroic efforts at hiding it told me this baby was the one I
needed. The one who would change things in ways only I could
envision.

I'm willing to bet
everything I own that this baby isn't just the nation's Firstborn,
but that she's the special girl I've been searching for.

"Sweetie…" My mother's singsong words came
to me in my sleep as she smoothed back my hair and rubbed her thumb
over my forehead.

Because she was a devoted scientist, the
pads of her fingers were soft and soothing. I, on the other hand,
was a part-time lab assistant, working only as many hours as
required. I spent my free time in combat training. Those drills
left my hands and fingers calloused and my body covered in
injuries.

I may have been a few days shy of my
seventeenth birthday and as narcissistic as any other girl my age,
but nothing about those imperfections mattered to me. I considered
them badges of honor, ones I planned to offer up to Jayden St.
Romaine as visible proof that I'd won our bet.

It had been six months since I'd laid eyes
on Jayden, the most dedicated Surrogate Soldier I knew. He and I
had grown up together and, until our forced separation, had trained
with each other almost every single day since we'd met. Ask anyone
and they'd tell you we fought like siblings and acted as though
anything could be turned into a competition as intense as those
associated with gold medals.

Settling for silver is
never an option for either of us.

Jayden's parting challenge, one meant to
keep me working out and training, had been,
"When I see you again, princess, you'll be fat, lazy, and
slow, and I'll bet you a week's worth of back rubs I'll be able to
outrun, out spar, and outshoot you."

I'd rolled my eyes like I always had when he
taunted me, and my retort had been simple.
"You wish. I'll be in the same shape I am today, and you'll
have to read Tawney's favorite romance novel aloud to me every
night until it's finished."

Jayden had known me well enough to know his
goad hadn't been one I'd resist. I'd instantly become interested in
winning the challenge. I hadn't cared if the training killed me,
and it had almost done just that on a few occasions. All I cared
about was the satisfaction of proving him wrong.

On that last day together, Jayden and I
acted as if snarky comments and shallow bets had been all that
existed between us. Instead of telling me good-bye, casually
mentioning he might miss me, or—
better
yet
—giving me the courtesy of explaining why he'd chosen
not to come with my family and me when we left on what was supposed
to be a month-long mental health vacation for Mom, he'd uttered
dares meant to keep me motivated.
And
alive.
He thought I needed them more than his kindness…
or maybe they'd been easier to hear than anything else.

Maybe they
were.

"Sweetie, I need you to wake up," Mom
hummed, interrupting my thoughts of Jayden, the ones that seemed to
haunt me anytime I was away from the lab and not involved in
training.

I missed him terribly and would have given
almost anything if I'd insisted we put an end to our bickering long
enough to talk,
really talk
, before
we left.

Surrogates, by definition, were conceived in
a lab, carried by a surrogate mother, and delivered in an exchange
nursery where they were raised until they were old enough to be
chosen by a family or accepted into Elite, a school designed to
train the best Surrogates, molding them into the soldiers they were
born to become.