Out of Touch (18 page)

In the poster area, where pine needles had been scattered across and authentic dirt floor, he found a Swiss scientist who wouldn’t negotiate but pointed him toward Dr. Heiss, a younger Swiss researcher currently studying schizophrenics. Heiss’ mind was open, not that unusual among the Swiss. Parts of their government, scientific establishment, and hotel administration clearly knew about telepathy. But the strongest Swiss research program seemed to be market research for conferences. The genetics were so new and so biased toward the U.S. and China, it was possible they didn’t have enough Swiss telepaths to silence minds of scientist, even those who might get scooped at the events their country hosted. Or maybe the Swiss thought illicit idea mining would attract generous attendees.

James remembered his lunch with Nigel, remembered it surprisingly well, but wasn’t eager to arrange such a collaboration with another open minded young scientist. However, he needed samples he could follow up on, in case he was on to something. Was the possible precursor sequence real and could it be found outside of Britain? His collaborator needn’t know his real objectives, and if the rest of the research leaked out, that was a fair price to pay.

“Dr. Heiss?” James asked as he approached the squat blond man.
He was standing beside a protein holograph unfortunately placed just in front of a moving sheet of pseudo-waterfall. The protein appeared to ripple while the water appeared all but still.

“Yes?” The face that turned toward him bristled with almost transparent blond eyebrows and mustache. While James was flashing on toothbrush bristles, he heard Heiss’ thoughts compare him to
a computer salesman, stiff, un-tailored shirt. . .
He glanced at Heiss’ shirt, which had carved stone buttons and shades of pink and gray woven into the pale blue fabric, but if it was somehow more tailored than usual, James couldn’t tell the difference.

“James Morton,” he extended a hand without missing a beat, trying not to react to the ongoing critique of his apparel, “I don’t think we’ve met.”

They shook, and James heard the recognition of his name in the other man’s thoughts.

That’s Morton? The Thai independent who sorted the first bipolar variants and developed that partially reproduced splice technique? I thought he’d be older.

Not high praise, but James felt confident they could reach an agreement, even if all Heiss said was, “I’ve seen your work.”

“Perhaps you saw my paper, or others, on the relationship between mood and immune system fluctuation in certain subsets of patients, especially those with psychotic symptoms?”

“Yes.”
Get to the point.

James respected the directness of Heiss’ mind, “Well, I have a new idea for treating schizophrenic symptoms through an immune intervention partially refined in research on pseudomonas. However, I need a broader sample than my usual clinical population. I thought we might arrange a study with shared subjects.”

Logistically annoying, but this might help my replication of the neuroleptic cocktail results.

“Interested?” James pushed.

“Perhaps.”

“Shall we get coffee and discuss logistics?”

James suppressed a smile as the other man nodded thinking,
More like double protein mocha with citrus and caffeine boosts, but what can you expect of someone who dresses like a computer salesman?

An hour later, James returned to his hotel room a satisfied man. He would have new samples, probably within two weeks. His major goal for the conference was accomplished.

He opened his suitcase and began to reach in before he saw the note. It must have pushed to the side across the moss-sculpted carpet as he opened the door. It said:

1T33K000 lost. May be unusual variant. May relate to your work.

James looked at the message in bafflement. Part of the meaning was painfully clear. Anyone could get “one teek lost” from the first sentence, otherwise the marker was gibberish. He tried to guess more precisely what was meant. If the messages referred to the U.S., and the U.S. had lost a teek, did that mean the person died, defected, or disappeared? An unusual variant probably referred to genetics, but could refer to politics. If his “work” meant studying teeks and teeps, then the third sentence was redundant. Could the genetics Minerva wanted relate to telekinesis? Could the earlier Brandenburg thread mean the current teek came out of his father’s project? But there were no teek genetics included, not when he’d worked with them. And whoever was sending notes couldn’t know about the possible precursor sequence he’d found. At least, he hoped foreign spies weren’t that good. The thought that it all tied back to his father made James bury his head in the facts.

He pulled out his pilot and checked the two known teeks in his database. One had the bipolar correlate, one didn’t. He checked the new sequence he’d found in fifteen of Radford’s patients. The teek without the bipolar correlate had that one. Could there be two variants of telekinesis? And how might that relate to schizophrenia? Probably finding one sequence in each of his teeks was just chance, but how could he know without more data? Known teek samples were not something he could acquire by barter.

The glow from his successful negotiations with Heiss was gone; acquiring schizophrenic samples no longer seemed good enough. What if the person sending notes thought James knew something about teeks, something that would explain the Minerva offer? What if the current note referred to work James wasn’t doing and couldn’t do for lack of data? Was the field he wanted to study leaving him behind because he didn’t want to play in others’ conspiracy?

James pushed in at his mock tree stump, hotel room desk, snagging the rolling chair in a rise of carpet moss. He shoved the chair through with a small tearing noise and brought up the security protocol to report his latest message to Alak. After drumming his fingers thumb to pinkie and back, he began to type.

April 12, 2025 – Bangkok, Thailand

“What do you make of the new note?”
James asked Alak as he entered the lab.

Alak nodded and brought his hands to his face, “Sawadikrap.”

“Greetings.” James motioned impatiently toward his desk. He didn’t want to sit there. Too many piles of papers cluttered the top, but he forced himself to wait calmly in the chair.

“May I see the note?”

James retrieved it from his pocket and held it before him, pinching the top corner with each hand.
“You’ve known the words since yesterday. Is there anything you can tell me?”

“There was a teek who fled south from the U.S. last week.”

“And you already knew?

Alak gave a measured nod and reached forward for the paper. James gave it politely, and pinched each set of finger to his desk instead.

“But how does he relate to me? And why this note?”

“She. The rest is less clear.”

“Less?”

“We don’t know.”

“But you will tell me?”

Alak rose and bowed slightly in parting. James pushed up from the cluttered desk, not wanting to show his full agitation.
“It might help my work if I knew. I might find more to tell you.”

Alak showed no reaction as he left.

James wanted to throw something, but settled for aggressively reorganizing his workspace.

Reggie bought sodas from a ten-year-old boy who lounged against his plastic cooler in the heart of the rain forest. The kid took his American dollars with a wicked capitalist grin. Tikal was a tourist trap. There were postcards of every Mayan pyramid from every angle, every carving from every angle, every open vista from every angle. Still, it was several hours drive from any luxury hotel, and not a cheap fare from any reasonable lodgings either. So there were more of the young and glorious people and fewer of the bored and tired set. There were still hundreds of Japanese with the latest computer-stabilized, special-effects-enhanced video recorders and plenty of other sightseers, using their phones to take pictures, being shepherded around by local tour guides. The Guatemalan government may not know how to administer a country, but they knew enough about economics to require native guides for visitors to Tikal.

Reggie brought the sodas over to Sarah, and slid in beside her where she sat against a tree, watching for howler monkeys. The guide they’d been forced to pay had been happy enough to leave for his own siesta when he realized they were in no hurry to finish. Reggie was glad they had the time to themselves. Sarah was wearing the batik shirt he’d bought her, and he liked how it hung loose at her neck. He drank his too sweet soda and rubbed the cool can across his face. A slight breeze dried the moisture, but also caused him to breath in dust.

“We should call soon,” Sarah said.

“But there’s so much to see between here and California.”

“You said you wanted to see Xunantunich and Tikal.”

“I did, and weren’t they worth seeing? You’re just jaded because you’ve seen these parts before. But if we took the back roads through Mexico –”

“Sorry, did that last week. Besides, if the U.S. is really looking for me, they might follow my trail down.”

Reggie could smell her sweat and sunscreen. He imagined himself as a tracking dog, retracing her every move. “The worst that happens is they catch you before you turn yourself in.”

“But then they’ll be more careful. I can’t say I’ve chosen to help on the conditions I stay with you and see the Chens.”

“One more night. We’ll go out to the coast, rent ourselves a little grass hut at one of those fancy resorts, walk on the beach, maybe take a moonlit swim –“

“Reggie,” she shook her head and a streak of sunlight jumped side to side across her nose. “I don’t know what you paid the driver to bring us out here. I don’t know what he paid the border guards to let us through without checking papers. I don’t know what it would cost to get back out to the coast. But if you try to check into a resort like that you’re either going to have to show ID or spread a lot of cash. Either way, the CDC could show up before we had time to enjoy it. Let’s wait until we can vacation without worries.”

“Are you sure you want to go back?”

“I couldn’t stand myself if I didn’t.”

Reggie pulled Sarah close to him and held her against his chest despite the heat. Her hair smelled different. She hadn’t been able to pack her usual shampoo before leaving home. Her arms were bare and tan, the way they would have been two months later in the spring, but not now. She could move objects with her mind, and he was surprisingly comfortable with that. They were making plans that involved spies and telepaths. Somehow, this was his Sarah, behaving just as he would have expected under the circumstances. It was also a Sarah he had never expected, pulling him into a world he had never imagined. Reggie tried to shake his self-directed advisor persona and stabilize in the supportive boyfriend role.

“Reggie, I hate to ask, but how much money do you have?”

“A couple thousand in cash, much more that I moved to international accounts.”

“I’ve never asked you for money.”

“I know, but I’d happily spend it on you.”

“No. But, maybe you’d consider several plane tickets to Thailand a good cause?”

“Of course. You want the account codes?”

Reggie couldn’t help but stroke Sarah’s hair and neck as they went over the account locations and passwords. He wanted to do more, but decided to wait.

“Should I borrow a cell phone?” he asked.

“You think you can?”

“No problem.”

“From someone they won’t bother? I’ll go through the toll free operator and tell CDC I borrowed the phone, but I bet they’ll check anyway.”

“I can handle it.”

Reggie helped Sarah up from the ground, and led her toward the central acropolis. He felt magnificent walking toward it, even if it was a tourist trap. They glanced around at the plentiful tourists braving the afternoon sun. First Reggie looked for easy going people, those who would lend him a cell phone. Then he studied their clothes to guess who was respectable but innocuous, least likely to be suspect when the government traced the phone. A picture perfect American family strolled into view.

             
“Excuse me, can we borrow your phone? We need to check on who’s picking us up, and ours don’t work here.”

             
“Yeah, sure. No problem.” With barely a glance to check Reggie’s respectability, the man pulled out his phone. “You got any idea where the stella of the rain god is?”

             
Reggie took the offered phone, a Worldtel 2025, not a bad choice for an American hoping to work with other cell standards abroad. His respect for the family rose a notch. As he handed the phone to Sarah he said, “The one with the missing nose? Let me show you. Your tour guide go on siesta, too?”

             
“Oh yeah, Sammy wore him out hours ago.”

             
Sammy, the man’s pre-teen son, was lecturing about the Mayan rain god, despite the fact no one was listening. The imagery was clear and concise as a comic book and occasionally made his mother wince. Reggie helped them find the stella while Sarah stood out of earshot using the phone.