"Well, that was an unmitigated disaster," Norman Dockran said.
"We may be able to modify the force shield generators," Glenda said, "So that the sides can be open while the shield is operating. You know, um, in case something like this happens again."
Norman glared at her. "Cold comfort."
"Come to think of it," Dr. Rasmussen asked, "Why did none of us think to put up the force shield before my subject escaped the island?"
Every head in the room turned to stare at him.
Norman muttered "Damn it" under his breath. Then, he spoke up. "Yes, we all should have thought of that." Though, to be fair, the force shields were new technology. "But now that she has escaped, what can we do about it?"
Stan, wearing the same kind of pudgy business suit as always even in the face of emergency, scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably. "We do have operatives on the mainland. At least we can keep an eye on her when she reappears." He grinned. "She'll be kind of hard to miss."
And what will we do with her when we find her? Norman thought. He didn't want to dwell on this point any more; there were still more messes to clean up. He turned to Glenda. "What's the situation with Nova?"
"We managed to corral him back into his pen," Glenda said. "The collateral damage was surprisingly light. Frankly, it's harder to keep him fed."
"Nova's outing wasn't a complete waste," Prakesh interjected.
Norman frowned. "Oh?"
Plakesh continued, "Every time we can observe him out in action, we learn a little bit more. And this time, one of my teams thinks they've finally figured out how he generates the effect. They even say we should be able to duplicate it artificially. They've put together a proposal to build a Nova-effect generator that could be switched on and off."
Norman raised his eyebrows. "That could be useful."
"Especially," Prakesh finished, "If said generator were mounted in a small remote-controlled rover, or robot."
Norman cracked a wry smile. "If the rest of the world stops bombing us long enough, maybe you'll get a chance to actually build your new toy."
"Speaking of long-term projects," Dr. Rasmussen said.
Prakesh growled, "You'd better not be trying to build another wooden cyborg."
Rasmussen ignored him, and kept his gaze firmly fixed on Mister Eternal. "Sir, as you know, brainwashing our operatives is time-consuming and expensive. I may have stumbled upon an alternative. Cybernetics is all about interpreting nerve signals, and sending the right signals to the nerves we want. A member of my own team has figured out a way to trigger nerve impulses remotely. It's possible to tune in to a specific nerve, or group of nerves, the same way you might tune a radio transmitter. It will take some time, probably a couple of years, and we'll need some help from neuroscientists, but we should be able to discern the patterns of nerve signals necessary to override a human brain's ability to make decisions for itself."
Norman frowned. "You're talking about building a mind control device."
"If you want to call it that," Rasmussen said. "Transmission range is going to be relatively short, only a few dozen meters, and the device would have to be operating the entire time we'd want to control someone. But I think it can be done."
Norman sat silent for a few seconds, then said, "I'm worried about troop morale. We've had to keep our brainwashing operations secret, even from the Perpetual Army. We can't have them learning that we're building a 'mind control ray' too. I want you to do your experiments, and perfect your technology, off the island. Do it somewhere on the mainland, away from prying eyes. And when it comes time to test it on human subjects, be sure you only choose subjects that no one will miss, like homeless folk, in case anything goes wrong."
Rasmussen rubbed his chin. "I think I know just the place."
Groggy and woozy from sleeplessness and hunger, Rachael Stowe beached her tiny boat somewhere on the East Coast of the U.S.. The waves of the deep ocean were high, much higher than she'd expected, and keeping her motorboat from capsizing had been a challenge many, many times. Thirst hadn't been an issue; someone had left a water bottle in the boat, and her cyberwood body didn't need as much water as a tree or even as a normal human. But hunger was another matter. Somewhere in her cybernetic body, whatever passed for her personal fuel supply was steadily dwindling. And her boat's fuel supply had fared even worse. Three five-gallon cans full of gasoline weren't enough to cross even the narrrow slice of the Atlantic that separated Dockran's Island from North America. She'd drained all of her fuel cans dry yesterday, and had resorted to paddling the boat the rest of the way with her oversized hands — hands which were now caked with salt.
But she'd made it. She'd made it to the mainland.
She clambered out of the boat and onto the wet sand. After days at sea, her long wooden legs felt nearly as awkward as when she'd first tried to run with them. She shook her head, and tried to get her bearings. Could she tell where on the continent she'd made ground? It looked eerily familiar.
She gasped. That blue-and-white sign! She knew this place! She'd been here as a teen-ager. This was St. Simons Island, in Georgia. She would've recognized it sooner, except this was the off season and there were no beachgoers out sunbathing or swimming. Holy cats, she was just 65 miles away from her hometown of Waycross. She could just jaunt over there and see her mother!
Then she glanced down at her eight-foot-ten wooden frame, and her heart sank. She wasn't Rachael Stowe, the girl who'd made Waycross High's varsity volleyball team in 1983. Not anymore. Now, she was just a walking, talking, monstrous tree. Even if her old friends and family believed she was who she said she was, they'd be wary, if not terrified. As would anyone she met.
She glanced inland, above the beach. There was a town there, a touristy one. Probably with lots of nice places to eat. Damn, she could sure go for a hamburger right about now. It felt weird to feel hungry again, almost as weird as it felt to need to breathe. She still wasn't sure what would happen to the remains of anything she ate, after she was done digesting it. Maybe if she were a real tree, with leaves and branches and roots, she could just use photosynthesis to recharge; but that wasn't the body Eternal Mankind had cursed her with. So, she took a step toward the town . . . and instantly realized she had no way to pay for a meal. No cash, no credit cards, no pockets where something valuable might be hiding. And back when she'd left Georgia to join T.H.E.M., she'd shut down all of her old bank accounts.
All she could hope for was that someone, somewhere, would see it in their heart to give her some food, or give her enough loose change to scrounge together a half-decent meal. Maybe she could beg on the street. Or — well, maybe, someone would be willing to pay for the use of her prodigious strength. Tote that barge, lift that bail, that sort of thing. She could rent herself out as a crane or a bulldozer. Stranger things had happened since super-powered people had started appearing on the scene.
And at the same time, she'd need to raise the alarm about T.H.E.M.. They'd no doubt be after her. Heaven knew what kinds of stories they'd make up about her. She had to let the public know the truth, the depths to which Mister Eternal would sink, the extent to which he seemed to believe that the ends justified the means.
The ends. Damn.
That was the snag of it. After all the hell they'd put her through, she still believed in Eternal Mankind's original premise. Raise humanity up to immortality. Overcome the human body's shortcomings. Transhumanism as the means to better the lives of all. She still felt, in her heart of hearts, that this was right, and that the people who opposed transhumanism out of knee-jerk fear should get the hell out of everyone else's way. That belief might not win her any friends — and right now, she desperately needed friends — but she couldn't just flip a switch and make herself believe differently.
Well, there was no use putting it off. It would do her no good to starve. She trudged slowly toward the town, and hoped for the best. Godspeed the tree.
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