The Omega Project (15 page)

First, I had to deal with GOLEM.

“The Beta Squad males appear to be functioning within acceptable psychological parameters.”

“Commander Read, Jason Sloan, and Egor Vasiliev are the three Alpha Squad males. Determine the sociopath and report back at once.”

That sounded more like an order than a request, but I let it go. “I’ll do my best.”

I stood to leave, anxious to try out Lara’s bed.

“Professor Eisenbraun, you are one cryogenic booster shot behind schedule.”

“Am I? Guess I’ll have to catch up after my shift with Jason Sloan.”

The surgical lights bloomed bright, revealing a hypodermic needle and an alcohol swab lying on an instrument tray on the operating table.

“What? Now?”

“Adhering to the booster shot schedule ensures proper tissue absorption.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to screw that up.” Cursing under my breath, I trudged over to the surgical suite where the two robotic trunk arms hung from their ceiling mounts over the table, their wheel of surgical instruments resembling two giant Swiss Army knives.

“GOLEM, how soon until you’ve evolved enough neuro-receptors to gain control of these appendages?”

“Twelve months, three days, six hours, seventeen minutes.”

“And then you’ll actually be able to perform surgery?”

“Phase I medical procedures are limited to X-rays, bone-setting, and field dressings. Phase II procedures will be operational in fourteen months and will include obstetric, gynecology, and prostate examinations as well as orthopedic and cosmetic surgery.”

“Boob jobs and bunghole inspections … how lovely.” I smiled disarmingly, but the thought of allowing a computer armed with an array of sharp instruments to check my prostate didn’t sit well with me.

“Phase III procedures will be operational in twenty-seven months, sixteen days and will include appendectomies, cardiac repairs, neurosurgery, and dental procedures.”

“Definitely motivates one to brush after every meal.” Unzipping my jumpsuit, I exposed a small section of my left butt cheek. I carefully swabbed the skin with the alcohol pad, then gripped the hypodermic needle in my right hand. “The things I do for love.” Jabbing the muscle, I injected the clear elixir. The pain of the needle subsided, yielding to a wave of nausea.

“Anything else before I puke?”

“Report here tomorrow at oh-five-hundred hours for your next booster shot.”

“You’re a real pain-in-the-ass, you know that?”

“Proctology exams must wait until neuroreceptors have evolved for Phase II procedures.”

“Never mind. By the way, if these appendages of yours haven’t been activated yet, how did you manage to leave the booster shot on the table.”

“The shot was left by Jason Sloan.”

*   *   *

Cryogenist Jason Sloan was a toothpick-skinny six-footer, with brown shoulder-length hair and hazel eyes that fluttered when he engaged his 167 IQ. Two years younger than me, he clearly exhibited a man-crush on yours truly.

“I’ve been following your progress on ABE every since you received funding from the DoD. Why the defense department? Is ABE considered a weapon?”

“Only if you consider brain farts as the next WMD. My uncle’s a general. He arranged a grant.”

“Nice. What’s the earliest memory you’ve ever accessed? Could you access memories from the day you were born? How about from inside the womb?”

“It’s accessible, but without the cognizance—”

“Can you simulate an acid trip? Leave your body? What do colors smell like? Aw, man, what about the sex? If I had ABE, I’d be a maniac!”

“I think you already are.” I followed my exuberant new companion through the lower level and into the biology lab that held my designated cryogenic pod. “So Jason, are you the one who will be programming my pod?”

“Pod’s programmed. I’m the one who hot-wires the neural connections just before you go nighty-night. No worries, bro. Never lost a subject yet, except for Alec.”

“Who’s Alec?”

“Alec Russell. He was one of our first human guinea pigs. Let’s just say the dude didn’t thaw evenly. Again, no worries. We haven’t had a problem since we perfected the booster shots.”

“What if the booster shot wears off?”

“Can’t happen,” Jason said, checking a pressure valve on a pipe inside the cryogenic pod’s chassis. “To put you to sleep, we give you an IV drip that contains anesthetics and a booster activator. The activator mixes with those booster shots you’ve been receiving, essentially shutting down cellular mitosis, along with the aging process. The tetrodotoxin gel seals the deal. Cellular activity remains shut down until the vat drains and your cells come in contact again with oxygen. Doesn’t matter if you’re under a day or a century, until you’re exposed to air, you’re a Popsicle. Hey, ever wonder if ABE can be hacked?”

“Huh? No. It can’t be hacked; every person’s neural pattern is different.”

“Right, right. So, what’s a guy have to do to get rigged?”

“I’ve got the only prototype. The first ABE-100 editions should be available in April.”

“By April, we’ll be cruising past Mars. Come on, doc, hook me up!”

“Sorry, Jason.”

“I’ll make it worth your while. How’d you like to spend the training exercise in one thirty-day-long nocturnal emission?” Jason tapped the cryogenic pod’s control panel. “I call it ‘Omega Memory Injection,’ or OMI for short, as in, ‘oh my, do me again.’ It’s something new I’ve been playing around with. Just before you slip into cryogenic stasis, the sensory helmet engages a prerecorded visual that stimulates the cerebral cortex.”

“By prerecorded visual, you mean porn?”

“Hey, whatever you’re into, I don’t judge. I’m into Stackism.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Stackism focuses itself on objectivity and the willingness to try almost anything without prejudging it, as long as it doesn’t inflict harm upon ourselves or others. We named our philosophy after the late, great Robert Stack, who hosted an old TV show called
Unsolved Mysteries
.” Jason rolled up his sleeve, the words,
IN STACK WE TRUST
tattooed on his left biceps. “I’m a founding member.”

“Congratulations.”

“I knew you’d appreciate it. We think alike, you and I. Stackism seeks out mysteries, then gathers data in order to arrive at logical explanations. You could say cryogenics was an early application of Stackism. I mean, let’s face it, it takes a serious set of balls to be among the first to freeze yourself in goo.”

“I’m sure your friend, Alec, would agree.” I stared at the sarcophaguslike chamber. My plan had always been to declare every male aboard
Oceanus
normal, then excuse myself from being frozen, but what if GOLEM ordered me put to sleep?

“Jason, let’s say you were held in stasis and you got caught up in a really bad dream. Is there a way to wake yourself up?”

“You’re talking about an emergency flush. Sorry, it’s been written out of the mission protocol.”

“Why?”

“Ask GOLEM.”

I lowered my voice. “What if I don’t want to ask GOLEM? What if I wanted my chamber to maintain an emergency flush as a backup?”

Jason smiled, leaning in close enough for me to smell the tomato soup on his breath. “I couldn’t do it on the Europa flight, but on the training mission … on just your pod? Yeah, it’s doable. See, your pod isn’t rigged to GOLEM, it’s independent of the Omega twelve.”

“I’m listening.”

“The emergency flush is activated neurologically when you recite a passage or code word in your dream.”

“How do I do that?”

“Omega-wave sleep is different from REM sleep. You maintain access to all memories. The dreams seem very real. Recite the code word and the pod drains, exposing your cells to oxygen.”

“Do it. Hook my pod up with the emergency command and the moment we get back to the States, I’ll arrange for one of the ABE-100 units to be surgically implanted in your brain, my treat.”

“Done deal, dude.” Jason Sloan punched the control panel, popping it open. Using a set of jeweler tools and a pair of magnifying specs with a built-in light, he set to work on the circuit board.

Three minutes later he was finished.

“That’s it?”

“Not yet. I removed the override, but you need to program the system with a password or phrase. Something unique that only you would know.” Jason opened the cryogenic pod’s lid, exposing the inside of the tank. A myriad of flex tubes and wires ran throughout the assembly, connecting to a central tub composed of soft plastic, shaped like a seven-foot biped.

“Who’s this for? A professional basketball player?”

“The internal suit shrinks when you lay down in it, molding to fit all body types.”

“Including Yoni?”

“Yoni was a challenge.” Jason reached inside a storage compartment and removed a paper-thin clear aero gel sensory helmet. “Put this on, the inside of the helmet will conform to the size and shape of your skull. Close your eyes. When you feel a buzz, mentally repeat your phrase or passage three times, then give me a thumbs-up and I’ll shut it down.”

Following the boy-genius’s instructions, I placed the lightweight helmet on my head. Its curved interior was comfort-fitted and surprisingly soft to the touch. After a moment I could feel its internal skin squeezing gently over my skull, brow, and ears—an electrical vibration tingling my scalp.

Vanilla sway. Vanilla sway. Vanilla sway.

I opened my eyes, giving Jason a thumbs-up. The buzzing sensation ceased. Removing the headpiece, I handed it to the cryogenist. “You’re sure this will work?”

“Sure as I’m standing here. The moment the neural-generated command is received, the pumps activate, draining the tank. Once the tetrodotoxin clears, you get a shot of adrenaline to the heart and you’re conscious again. It’s not how I’d want to be woken up, but it’ll do the trick.”

“You’re a good man, Jason Sloan. Just keep this little secret between us, and five weeks from now you’ll be smelling colors and exploring all your lost memories.”

“To hell with that. I want to tap into my primordial DNA, trip on ABE while reliving my existence as a Neanderthal. Better yet, maybe I can claw my way back through evolution, crawling on all fours as a prehistoric mammal!”

I shook my head. In the world of chocolate and vanilla, Jason Sloan was pistachio.

13

First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.

—M
OHANDAS
K
ARAMCHAND
G
ANDHI

Day nine. My shift over, I entered Stateroom Seven in need of a shower, food, and sleep. I could smell Lara’s perfume as I crossed the living room and entered the bedroom.

“Good evening.” She was lying in bed, wearing only one of my T-shirts.

“Lara, what are you still doing here? You’ll be late for your shift.”

“Thought I’d be bad today.” Raising her model-thin legs, she playfully walked up my chest with her toes, the action exposing her naked lower torso. “Let’s be bad together.”

I felt my erection growing larger as ABE recorded my egotistical thoughts of revenge sex that I could later flaunt in front of Andria. My groin urged me on like a horny teenager:
Just do it, Ike. We need this, Ike. This is therapeutic sex, dude, exactly what the doctor ordered.

I took a step back, allowing her legs to fall. “This isn’t going to happen, Lara.”

“She doesn’t want you, Ike.”

Listen to her,
my groin seemed to urge,
she’s making sense.

I should have taken Lara right then and there, only I couldn’t. Yes, Andria had cheated on me, and yes it was my sworn duty as a man to anesthetize the wound, and I would have except for two things: First, as pathetic as it sounds, I still wanted Andria. Second, and far more important, you don’t just have a one-night stand with a girl like Lara, especially under these circumstances, trapped in a habitat with your former fiancée. Within ten minutes of burying my load the entire crew would know, because Lara would let it be known, since she was territorial, and that would invite a shit storm of biblical proportions. Not because Andria wanted me back, but because Lara would rub it in her face, and the last thing I wanted was to find myself at the center of a catfight with the possible chance of being cryogenically frozen for thirty days, relying on one of those two felines to set me free.

I avoid looking at her naked body as I backed out of the bedroom. “I’m grabbing a bite to eat. If you’re still here when I get back, I’ll find another place to sleep.”

Leaving the suite, I jogged around the corridor twice before entering the galley, hoping to alleviate my “pitched tent.”

Kevin Read was conversing with the Russian nuclear physicist, Egor Vasiliev at the dining table as I made my entrance. Andria was seated at the other end of the table, reading from her h-pad. She looked at me and I looked at her, her female instincts causing her eyes to linger over the front of my jumpsuit like it was a crime scene.

None of this was lost on Kevin Read, who read the situation and immediately sought to control it. “Eisenbraun, order some dinner and join us.”

“Can’t,” I said, waving to Dharma Yuan, who was reading at the snack bar. “Got a session with the doc.” I detoured to the food service area, ordered a chicken sandwich and soft drink pouch, then joined the Chinese therapist.

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

She looked at me, perplexed. “How do you mean?”

“It was a joke. You know, last week … when you bailed me out. Anyway, it’s good to see you again. How are things on Alpha shift? What exactly do you do all day?”

“Among other things, I meditate. As a Bodhisattva, I can register the biorhythms of the entire crew.”

“Including me?”

“Especially you. Your presence on this mission is causing chaos among the crew.”

“Oh, well. I guess thirteen really is an unlucky number.”

“The problem is theirs. Karma has dictated that you be here.”

“How do you know that?”