Immune (21 page)

Senator Conally snorted derisively. "Really? And are you aware that the consensus within the military leadership disagrees with your assessment?"

Scott's face showed no sign of emotion. "Senator, that is hardly surprising considering the Defense Department's parochial view of the world. I would point out that there is a consensus within the intelligence community that agrees with the president on this. That includes the director of Central Intelligence, the FBI director, the director of the National Security Agency, and the director of National Intelligence."

"I notice you failed to mention that the initiative is vehemently opposed by the Defense Intelligence Agency. You also ignored the opposition of the previous secretary of defense and the previous director of the National Security Agency."

A slight smile creased the corners of Scott's mouth. "With all due respect, Senator, the DIA and the resigned secretary of defense are closely tied to the opinion of the Department of Defense, which I mentioned before. As for the recently deceased NSA director, I hardly think a criminal's opinion deserves our consideration."

Conally felt the heat rise up through his neck and into his face. "Do you think this is funny, Mr. Scott? Because I can assure you that we, here on this committee, take national security matters deadly serious. And while the fifteen members may disagree on many things, I believe you will find our tolerance for flippant answers in response to our questions to be nonexistent. Perhaps you would like to come back for a more extended session next week, along with a recall of your boss, the energy secretary."

This time it was Mr. Scott's turn to flush. He cleared his throat. "Senator, I apologize for any perceived slight. In the future I will ensure that my wording is more carefully considered."

"See that you do. Now, getting back to my original line of questions, are you aware of the subject of this week's special session at the United Nations?"

"Yes, Senator, I am."

"And you don't consider it alarming that more than ninety percent of the world's delegates joined in a resolution demanding that the United States immediately release all information on the alien nanotechnology into the public domain? There is also a call to turn the entire Rho Ship research program over to an international scientific committee in Europe."

"Senator, that response was exactly what we anticipated. However, that does not mean that we need to go along with their wishes. I believe that once the world community is able to evaluate, for themselves, the beneficial results of the nano-serum, the response will turn to one of gratitude."

Senator Conally pursed his lips. "That seems to be the administration's theory. I'll come back to this line of questioning later. For now this committee recognizes the senator from Alabama."

By the time Senator Conally gaveled the hearing to a close and made his way to his car, darkness had fallen. As he pulled into his parking space at the Watergate, the first drops of rainfall had splattered his windshield, just enough to make the wipers squeal in protest as they smeared the dampness around.

Although every other senator was rushing to get out of town for the long holiday weekend, Conally was just glad to step inside his D.C. apartment and close the door behind him. Three years divorced, with two adult children who had moved to L.A. left him with the one thing he currently desired: a peaceful evening away from the Washington dogs of war.

Flipping on the light, Conally removed his coat and tie, hanging them neatly in the closet before making his way to the wine rack. He let his eyes linger on the labels as he lifted several bottles, replacing each in its spot until he found what he was looking for, a nice bottle of Alexander Valley Cyrus.

Swirling the red wine in the glass, he settled back in his reading chair and took a slow sip, letting the taste of the wine linger on his tongue. The way things were going, he wanted to savor every small pleasure.

The truth was that Conally was scared. His father had been a senator during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Conally remembered his old man telling about the terror that had gripped the capital in those days. Hell, the prospect of all-out nuclear war with the Soviet Union would scare the shit out of anybody. But it couldn't scare him any more than this.

The president of the United States had lost his fucking mind. He had opened a box that even Pandora would have left untouched.

Conally took another sip and leaned further back in the chair. Two weeks of hearings by numerous House and Senate committees had only slowed the pace at which events were progressing. And despite that a number of groups had come out in frenzied opposition to the release of the alien nanotechnology, many of them from the base of the president's own party, most of the public remained enthralled with the prospect of a cure for all ills. Conally's own polls showed public support for the president's policy running at 67 percent.

Conally had to admit that it was damn hard to argue that letting sick people die was better than saving them. Hell, if he had a fatally ill child, he'd be first in line for the stuff.

The military was against releasing it for obvious reasons. It wanted to inject American soldiers with the super juice and to hell with everyone else. The idea that he was on the same side of the argument as the military brass was enough to make Conally physically ill. And even though his reasons were entirely different, it made for a strange alliance, the anti-war liberal and the warrior elite.

Conally rose to his feet, moving to look out his window. Beneath him, the Potomac wound its way toward the Atlantic Ocean, the lights of several boats glittering in the distance. Beautiful. Dear Lord, would it be this beautiful when nobody could die?

When he was a small boy, Conally's father had gotten him one of the Magic 8-Ball toys, the kind you held upside down and asked a question. Then when you turned it back upright, an answer would pop into the window. In his mind's eye he could see his own answer pop into the window.

"Not Bloody Likely."

Conally knew that the nanites did not make a person immortal. They were just efficient little machines, scurrying around in your bloodstream, cleaning arteries, repairing damaged cells, killing infections, and fixing anything that didn't match the body’s DNA encoding. They didn't make you immortal, just damn hard to kill.

What was going to happen to the world's population as those things were injected into the bloodstreams of the third world's prolific breeders? No more disease. But what about starvation? And how much longer would people live? A hundred and fifty? Two hundred? Shit. There wouldn't be room to walk.

War would take on a whole new violence. You couldn't just shoot people, they would just get back up and keep coming. You would need to dismember, behead, or vaporize your enemy.

His committee had been asking those questions of the president's team all week. And the answers that were forthcoming provided little solace. To a person they had sat in their seats and testified that all new advances presented challenges, but these new ones, like those before them, would be resolved. Besides, they had said, when you had a technology that would cure the world's diseases and save millions of lives, wouldn't denying that cure be worse than the crimes of Hitler and Stalin?

As much as Conally hated to admit it, he couldn't come up with a good counterargument. Certainly not one that carried that kind of weight.

Taking one last swallow of the red wine, Conally inhaled deeply, then turned and picked up his worn King James Bible from the table. Closing his eyes, he murmured a brief prayer for inspiration and let the Bible fall open to a random page. Opening his eyes once again, a single verse jumped out at him.

"Father forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Heather opened her eyes, turning her head to glance at the glowing digital numerals on her bedside clock, even though it was entirely unnecessary. She knew precisely what time it was: 4:47 a.m.

Despite that she hadn't slept at all last night, she had never felt more rested in her life. She had only closed her eyes to enjoy the meditative state she had experienced on the newly discovered tentacle couch onboard the starship. That experience had changed her in ways she didn't understand, but which felt right. As intense as her experiences with the ship had been up until now, they had been pale shadows of this.

Mark had gone first, remaining on the couch for a full hour during which he had remained conscious, even asking to see the printed pictures of normal brain activity that Jennifer had brought along. Unlike the medical couch, only the person on the couch could see the mental visions of the experience. Nevertheless, by the time Mark had arisen, letting the tentacles melt away from his body, he had seemed completely confident that he had mastered the desired technique.

Heather had gone next. Despite what she had observed with Mark, she had found herself completely unprepared for the sensations that stormed through her body and brain as the millions of needle points made their connections. Beyond exhilarating, it was as if she had awakened from a dimly remembered dream.

Unlike any other meditation she had ever tried, she had found herself simultaneously conscious of every nerve, every cell within her body. Slowing her breathing and heart rate, as she had observed Mark do when he had first tried the couch in the medical lab, was trivial. Speeding up her metabolism was just as easy, requiring no significant level of concentration. She merely thought about what she wanted and it happened.

Heather had looked through Jennifer's pictures of brain activity, memorizing each with a glance before handing them back to Jennifer. With a slight shift of her thoughts, she had pulled up a mental image of her brain, shifting it to match the orientation in the photos. While this took more concentration than the earlier exercise, she had quickly gotten the hang of slowing the neural activity in each part of her brain, memorizing the feel of what she was doing as it happened. Even this had felt good, almost like letting a part of yourself drift off to sleep.

By the time she had arisen from the couch, Heather had felt sure that she could duplicate the effects at will. The amazing part had come after she had relinquished the tentacle couch to Jennifer. The feelings of total connection to her body and brain had remained, unabated.

Last night's sleeplessness troubled her, but not in the way a sleepless night should. It was as if she no longer needed sleep. The effect might not be permanent, but it was certainly odd. Combined with the oddities of yesterday's trip to the ship, it left her feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

Jennifer's reaction was what bothered her most. Heather had expected Jen to put up some resistance when Mark and then Heather had slid onto the couch. Instead, she had seemed almost eager to watch them try it. And when Jennifer had climbed onto the couch, it struck Heather that she was already familiar with the thing.

Another thing that bothered her was just how good she now felt. Heather didn't know why that bothered her, but if this was how people on drugs felt, she could understand how you could get hooked. There it was. The thought of what she might feel like when she came back down off this mental high was what scared her.

A sequence of brilliant mental images flashed through her mind. It just didn't seem likely that this was a temporary effect. From the second she had climbed onto that couch, she had known that the ship was doing something to her, something that went well beyond what she had experienced on previous visits.

Heather slid out of bed and into her robe and slippers, wondering if her mom and dad were up yet. No, they weren't.

Heather froze. The answer had just come into her head. There was nothing particularly odd about that. Everyone had inner dialog. But the feeling she got thinking about that answer sent shivers up her spine. This was no guess. Somehow, she just knew.

One thing was certain: standing here in her bedroom wasn't going to rid her of the strangeness. Perhaps a cup of tea wouldn't either, but it sure couldn't hurt.

By the time Heather seated herself in the lawn chair on her back porch, her knees drawn up almost to her chest, hands cradling the steaming mug, the first hint of dawn had softened the darkness in the east. Cool and crisp, with just a hint of pine scent on the smallest of breezes, the air that tickled her nostrils smelled different this morning. Even the chamomile tea seemed filled with subtle new flavors.

A rustling in the grass at the far edge of her yard attracted her attention. Sensing her gaze, a bunny lifted its ears momentarily before returning to its nibbling.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted her reverie.

"Good morning, Dad," Heather called toward the kitchen.

Gil McFarland stuck his smiling face out the door. "How did you know it was me and not your mother?"

"Dad, you're always the first one down."

"After you, that is. By the way, it's good to see you up early again. It's been a while since you played the early bird."

Heather laughed, something that sounded good, even to her own ears. "I guess I've finally caught up on my rest."

Her dad's eyes studied her for a moment and then he smiled once again. "You're sounding better. Let me get some coffee going. Your mom and I will come out and join you in a little bit."

"Sounds nice."