Miranda started to brush some lint from her skirt, but glanced quickly at a monitor. It showed her looking down, but not what she was doing. She straightened. The main monitor did show what Dr. Samuel Innes was doing: talking. He'd talked—and remained on screen—most of the show, leaving her to roast gently under the lights of the MSNBC studio. The producers had wanted Avram, but he was scheduled for someone else, so they took the second banana.
"Dr. Sena," the host said, evidently remembering she had another guest, "how do you respond to Dr. Innes's comment that you and most of the task force believe the children are human?"
"That conclusion is not set in concrete." A monitor showed Dr. Innes comfortably ensconced in an office instead of an overheated studio. "We tend to emphasize that because we have found no evidence to the contrary—"
"What evidence do you have for your position?"
"Minds, in particular, memories. These people remember—"
"A false lead," Dr. Innes said. The main monitor quickly switched to him. "These memories have been transferred from the source. These are not the same people they were before—"
"Of course not!" The words came out with more heat than she intended. "To assume these are cell-for-cell, thought-for-thought copies of themselves as youngsters is absurd. Look at photos of them when they were young the first time. There's superficial resemblance, but there are also larger differences. Where one was obese as a child, she isn't now. Where one had asthma as a child, he doesn't now. Where one had brown hair as a child, she doesn't now. Their body shapes are different—"
"Cookie-cutter kids," Dr. Innes said.
"That was amusing the first time, but isn't it getting a little stale now?" Miranda flashed what she hoped was a friendly smile. "And their minds are not cookie-cutter because they all retain their memories. I might add," before the host cuts to a commercial, "that culture itself has changed. The oldest member of the group was born ten years before the outbreak of World War II, the youngest four years before the collapse of the Berlin Wall, and in neither case has society remained stagnant. The families have changed; some parents are no longer alive, brothers, sisters have grown up, the members of the group have had children of their own, grandchildren in a couple of cases.
"Stephen Gould argues that if the tape of life were rewound, the repeat play would go off on a totally different plot and the rise of humans would not necessarily follow. Of course, he's talking billions of years. But this group, these people, have had the tape of their lives rewound, just a hair in geological time.
"Their lives have been rewound for a fraction of a second, but the plot has been changed forever."
* * *
[[" . . .the victim has been identified as Charles Thomas Romplin, one of the so-called Group of Seventeen. We are—yes, we are cutting now to a live press conference being held by police detective John Barker at Tempe, Arizona, police headquarters."
"We, uh, we have a confession from the father. Henry Romplin has stated he shot the boy at about ten P.M. last night with an older model double-barrel sixteen-gauge shotgun. Mr. Romplin said the boy tried to run, but, I'm quoting here, I got him anyway. Both shots came from a distance of about four feet. The first shot evidently slammed the boy into the front door, which was closed at the time, and the second shot was fired before the boy hit the floor, according to the father's statement. The medical investigator has said death was instantaneous. After the alleged shooting, Mr. Romplin placed the shotgun on the dining room table, left the house through the back door, and upon seeing a neighbor looking over the back fence, stepped over and told him he'd better call the police because there'd been a shooting. Officers found the elder Mr. Romplin sitting at a table on the back patio smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. He offered no resistance to arresting officers.
"As for motive, Mr. Romplin has not said much upon the advice of his attorney. However, Judy Romplin, Mr. Romplin's daughter, has stated to investigators the elder Romplin was quite upset over what happened to his oldest son. According to Judy Romplin, Mr. Romplin said several times over the last few months that Charles, the victim, was not his son, that, quote, something else had been put in his place.
"That's all we have for you now. We will not take questions."]]
* * *
Miranda bit off a curse as the top paper notebook fell off the stack. With both arms holding other documents, she couldn't see how to retrieve the errant book.
"Allow me." Matthew Gunnarson picked it up. "May I help with some of the others?"
"Your chivalry is not going unnoticed. I would appreciate it."
In order to transfer documents, they had to get close, and again she noticed the clear, blue eyes. They often belied the continual smirk, a trick of his she had trained herself to look out for.
Now the face smiled at her, eyes twinkling . . . Stop it.
"Didn't see you in the hall," she said as they started moving.
"I was in the copy room. Stepped out just in time to see that thing leap from the top of the pile. What are these?"
"Some of the data on brainwave studies misplaced in the move. I just now found them."
"Yeah, it's too bad we had to leave Albuquerque. New Mexico in the fall can be quite delightful. Instead, we're back to the Santa Ana-driven heat and dust of Los Angeles. I'm a bit vague on the reasons why."
They pushed through a door into the standard-issue conference room: long, no windows, pictures of famous alumni on the walls.
"Politics, Dr. Gunnarson, pure politics." She set her load down at the end of the table. "California wanted First Contact on its soil. State officials planned for it practically from the first Holn signal. Then the Holn crossed them by landing in New Mexico and they were angry and jealous. That jealousy finally found a venue of revenge when the House and Senate, spurred by the entire California congressional delegation, went to all the bother of passing resolutions that suggested the Holn Effect Task Force would be better off in California despite pleas from us that moving would be an unnecessary disruption. California was determined to get back some of the glory stolen by that upstart state, so it flexed muscle the puny New Mexico delegation couldn't match." She shrugged.
Matt lifted an eyebrow. "I see."
She grabbed some notebooks. "You also might want to remember we're pawns, Doctor, vulnerable to all sorts of political machinations. Now will you place one of these notebooks at each chair, please?"
"I hear and obey, O Great Leader."
She fixed him with a look, but he just chuckled as he walked along the oblong wooden table, tossing a spiral-bound book at each spot. She sighed, smoothed her blouse and skirt, then snapped her laptop on and arranged some of the papers before her. If you want to impress the guy, that's not—oh, shut up.
By now, other attendees began to enter, find a place, and thumb through the notebooks they found there. Miranda had called the meeting because she wanted at least one face-to-face contact with the scattered group. Even Avram showed up, taking a seat to her right, calmly chewing on an unlit pipe.
"No TV shows today?" She regretted it the instant she said it.
He just turned a bemused face to her, eyes glinting under the bushy eyebrows. "That's why I'm here. I've been in front of cameras so long, I figured I'd better find out what I'm talking about."
"I wonder if we have any idea ourselves." She watched Dr. Innes walk past without a greeting and take a spot midway down on her left. She also noticed Matt took the chair directly opposite.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" Dr. Innes said.
"Making sure you don't steal the limelight." Matt smiled a fake smile. "Or the funding."
Miranda watched as they seethed at each other for a moment. "Avram, I'm still going to get you for this."
Avram smiled his smile again.
Miranda poured a glass of water from the pitcher, then sat down and moved the tray to her left so she could see down the whole table. Until now, displays of animosity between Dr. Innes and Matt had been kept submerged under the effort of forming the task force and struggling just to find where to start. Now that the work was becoming routine, though, emotions didn't have the detours they did before.
"All right." Miranda put her elbows on the table, leaned forward. "As you know, we've lost one of our subjects, Charles Romplin, shotgunned to death by his frightened father. We all knew something like this would happen, and it did, but it won't be the only one. This points out better than anything I can tell you what we're up against, the time we don't have, the reason you're being ridden so hard.
"The notebooks contain the missing EEG scans. OK, we'll start with status reports. Tim?"
Timothy's Cardiopulmonary Group reported on healthy lungs and hearts "with nary a trace of clumped cholesterol, damaged alveoli, clogged veins, blocked arteries, or arrhythmic heartbeats."
After punching keys on his notebook, he said, "No signs of surgery, either. No incisions, sutures or scar tissue. This is consistent with all organs we've studied, but I'd be willing to bet no one else has found any indications of manual surgery. Any takers?"
Anna's Endocrine Group was eating up supercomputer space trying to determine how chemical reactions could be reversed, speeded up/down or otherwise modified to remake glandular response and control. Randall's Nutrition and Metabolism Group reported no change in the dietary preferences of the subjects and no indicators in changes in metabolism rates of what was ingested. "No ulcers, either," he said. "Mr. Romplin had been a heavy drinker, but his post-event liver was as healthy as it ever was." He paused. "Too bad he didn't live to enjoy it."
"In the initial examinations, one area was overlooked," said Orlando of the Osteology Group, "and that was the teeth. No thorough exams were done, no X-rays made. We have had to fall back on pre-event X-rays and dental records. In all cases, cavities are gone, fillings, crowns, bridges, false teeth, and, in one case, braces have been removed, but none of that stuff is needed anymore anyway. All subjects have a full complement of thirty-two teeth—that much we know—and they seem to be adult teeth."
"What size?" Dr. Innes said.
"Scaled to jaw size. The skulls are about ninety percent adult size, they won't have grown much—"
"You mean, the enamel was cut back without destroying the tooth?"
Orlando stroked his walrus mustache. "In recent examinations of two cooperating subjects, we found perfectly formed teeth with no signs of the wear you would expect in adult teeth. These are not refiled or reground, these are brand new, complete teeth."
"I see."
Lindsey used Earl Othberg as a base of discussion in her report from her Neurological Group.
"We keep coming back to him because he's an interesting case neurologically as well as physiologically. Fortunately, a PET scan had been done of him three years ago. His total brain volume has increased, but this cannot be attributed solely to replacing losses due to age. This new matter is made up of neurons and glial cells, and of the correct structure for brain location. The usual brain defenses against aging—growth of dendrites, for example—are present in some of the neurons. This almost allows us to differentiate between new and old neurons. Plus"—she referred to her notebook screen—"signs of dementia—senile plaques, vascular amyloid deposits, neurofibrillary tangles and such—are erased. Gone, removed, disappeared. Now, our question is, is he smarter than he used to be? He was pretty intelligent before, so it might be just icing on the cake."
It was left to Constance's Genetics and Cells Group to drop the real bombshell.
"The female side of the family of Linda Rithen, maiden name Cole, has a case history of breast cancer." Constance sat straight up in her chair and read from her laptop screen like it was a school report. "Ms. Rithen's mother and grandmother died of it, an aunt has had a radical mastectomy, a sister is undergoing chemo-bullet radiation therapy in hopes of avoiding surgery. A check of this sister's DNA shows the one-base switch in genes in chromosome seventeen so prevalent in inherited cases of breast cancer. Ms. Rithen, pre-event, had had her DNA checked, and she also had this combination." Constance looked around at the table, took a deep breath. "Subsequent analysis of her post-event DNA shows . . . shows a change in that combination, a switch of an adenine and a thymine. We feel the risk of Ms. Rithen now developing the cancer has dropped by a magnitude—"
"What!" Dr. Innes's shout echoed off the walls. "You're now telling me these—these aliens from another world fixed it so this woman won't get breast cancer? That is absurd! Ridiculous!"
Constance's face went deep red. "We have looked again and again and reconfirmed it once, twice, three times. The numbers are there—"
"Suppositions, you mean. You've led the charge to find out how to prevent and cure breast cancer, Dr. Peterson, and I think you're letting your obsession lead you by the nose. Obviously someone has misread the data."
"I said, we have checked again and again—"
"Preposterous!"
"Dr. Innes, that is enough." Miranda glared down at him, but he concentrated his fury on Constance.
"Look for yourself! Here!" She tossed memory stick at Dr. Innes. "It's all there, the Cole family data, Rithen's test results both pre- and post-. Find our mistake. Or find the mistake in the original analysis. Here, all of you!" She tossed memory sticks up and down the table. One came skittering down the table and stopped next to Miranda's hand. "That's all the data. Biopsy samples are available at USC if you want some. Please, find where we went wrong." She glared around at the table. "If you can."
"But how . . ." Timothy picked up stick, looked at it as if it could answer his question. "How does an ET know where the cancer-causing genes are?"
"There is one possibility," Avram said quietly. "Linda Rithen might already have had a tumor forming, too small to be noticeable. The Holn found it, analyzed it, compared it to the other females of the group, and took the necessary corrective switch."
"We have considered that," Constance said. "Another possibility is our own research the Holn studied."
"Still," Randall said, "that's quite a stretch."
"Wanda, how much information about human physiology was given to the Holn?" Miranda said.
Wanda ran a hand through her hair. "Just about everything we know."
"Was that really wise?"
"In the interests of intragalactic relations, Dr. Innes, it was deemed the proper thing to do. The Holn gave us a lot of information about themselves, and about the other beings on the mother ship. Data we haven't even touched yet."
"And how can you be sure that information is valid, that they weren't feeding you garbage?"
"That's the old Cold War mentality, isn't it? Our decision was based partly on the Holn's actions as they arrived, not being clandestine, letting humans traipse through part of their ship and all. Plus, we decided to put a little trust in them."
"Aside from all that," Matt said, "could they in six years learn enough about us to know when to reformulate the base pairs?"
"Not to mention regrowing organs," Lindsey said. "What, a bladder, a prostate, a gall bladder, some toes, and several pairs of tonsils."
"And hair," Olive said. "Our Mr. Othberg had thin, white hair; now look at him. And Mr. Stangle, Mr. Fairfax, both losing quite a bit of hair in the standard male pattern. Both with thick heads of hair now. Question is, will they get bald again? I know Mr. Stangle is anxious about it."
"We've talked about scaling, how the extremities and inner bone structures are scaled to the correct proportions for ten-year-olds," Constance said. "This applies to hair, too. I keep thinking of Ms. Athlington's lovely tresses. Pre-event, she cut it just below the knee. Post-event, it is just that long despite her being that much shorter."
"What about the structure of the hair itself?" Olive asked.
Constance gave her a sidelong glance. "Exterior structure matches pre-event samples minus signs of damage by aging. Cellular samples show matches in DNA, except, of course in Ms. Rith—"
"Oh, come on," Orlando said. "We're talking millions of combinations of DNA, plus the chemical formulae for growing cells. Even in six years that would be impossible to learn."
"Remember their computers," Wanda said. "Those machines are miles beyond anything we have, including all the Crays and Thinking Machines and Sunrooms and Deep Blues and CubeLinks and whatnot. In addition, JPL is studying something we haven't mentioned here: nanotechnology."
"Molecular manipulation," Timothy said. "Do we have anything to suggest they used it?"
"Not explicitly, no."
"It certainly would explain the lack of surgical signs," Randall said.
"How have the psychological studies progressed since the release of the group?" Avram asked.
Olive tossed her stylus on the table, frowning. "Our group has come nearly to a standstill. Some of the families are flat barring us from getting anywhere near. Mr. Romplin's family being one."
Miranda took another sip of water in the short silence that followed.
"Well, does that leave nanotech as the main engine of manipulation?" Timothy said.
"On the whole human genome?" Orlando said. "We've barely sussed the whole sequence ourselves."
"And we're still trying to fit the pieces together," Matt said. "As far as Connie's results go, I've been working with Dr. Philmont at Harvard and we are getting some confirmation."
Dr. Innes snorted. "Next, you're going to tell us these people are human right down to their bones."
"What's the big deal about bones?" Lindsey said. "You have osteoblasts to build up material and osteoclasts to take it away. So the Holn jazzed the 'clasts to shrink 'em."
"You, too, then, think all humans are, are just a collection of chemicals that can be stirred up in a cauldron like a witches' brew. Add a little eye of newt here, a little toad mucous there, a pinch of salamander lungs there and poof! a human, right? Not enough, my friend, not enough. There's something in the human, something intangible, that gives us spirit and intelligence. It resides in everyone and I'm afraid the Holn or whatever they're called removed it with the excess bone."
"And this spirit resides in the pineal gland, no doubt," Matt said.
Dr. Innes waved a hand. "Make your jokes. But we have no proof any of the original material is still in these people, that the spirit could survive the transformation."
"What is your suggestion?" Miranda said.
Dr. Innes turned a stony face toward her. "I've explained it a hundred times. The-the creatures put the brainwaves, the individual patterns, into humanoids they grew in a tank. Are these simulacra, incompletely grown and given the attributes of these people while the real humans are being taken to the mother ship? Possibly—this is how they populate the thing, don't you see, and leave seeds of themselves behind, animated bodies with memories impressed within, but without—soul. Yes, I'll use that word."
"Piffle," Matt mumbled. "Science fiction. Fantasy."
"It's a damn sight better than anything you've—"
"You grant-sucking worm!" Matt jumped up, climbed up on the table and glared down at Dr. Innes. "Tell us what the answer is, Dr. Innes, you're the only smart one here. Lay those pearls of wisdom on us—"
"You smart-ass little—"
"I'm not buying it, Doctor. I'm not one of your political worshipers, licking your shoes, the ones you use to make end runs around the budget process and steal money from other projects so your Florida university can build you a big, nice new lab—"
Dr. Innes jumped to his feet. "I do legitimate research, you jackass—"
"According to the gospel of St. Innes." Matt jabbed an arm at him. "You can't do that here. I'm not going to sit and listen to it. Do some thinking for a change, leave your fucking prejudices behind and approach this like a scientist, not a preacher—"
"You whining baby! You're still mad because they chose my project over yo—"
"And sixty oth—"
An explosion of glass made everyone jump, then stare down at the head of the table.
"Sit down and shut up!" Miranda glared down the table as water and glass dribbled down the wall to her right. Hurling the pitcher had pained muscles in her arm, and in the arc, water had sloshed out and caught Avram. Her whole body shook and she had to lean on the table to keep control. "You, off. You, down."
Matt was off in a flash, but Dr. Innes remained standing.
"Down!"
He sat.
"Too bad the TV crews aren't here to capture this. It'd be a great show. Scientists standing around screaming at each other. How entertaining! We have nothing, nothing except a dead man killed by fear and the rising of a new superstition. 'Something else had been put in his place,' the father said after pulling the trigger. On his own son. Soon we'll have more dead people and all we can think of is grant money? Damnit, if you can't leave your arguments and your grudges outside the door, or sweep them away, or throw them in the trash, then get out of here! Right now!" She grabbed Constance's memory stick. "This is what you are to concern yourself with from now on. You are here to analyze and research this phenomenon, find out what the hell's going on.
"I want this nanotech business pursued. Wanda, that's you. Those of you with alternate theories have ten days—ten days—to provide a solid base for your theories. The rest of you, stop yammering and give me results—quantifiable and substantial. If—"
Dr. Innes yanked his briefcase open. "I don't have to put up with this. This is not the fifth grade." He jammed papers and gadgets—except one—into his briefcase, slammed it shut, stood up.
"You step out that door and you're fired. I will have security escort you from the campus."
"Really—"
"Sit down!"
"Avram, for God's sake—"
Miranda paused, surprised Avram didn't answer. She stole a glance at him and stopped in shock. The hard look he had fastened on Dr. Innes sent chills down her spine; she wondered why the water droplets in his hair didn't freeze. Dr. Innes took one step, faltered; then stepped back, turned away, set his briefcase down on the table and flopped into his chair.
"The stick, doctor." Miranda kept her voice even.
Dr. Innes picked up Constance's stick with two fingers as if it had slime all over it, opened his briefcase slightly and dropped it in.
"Dr. Innes isn't the only one under the gun, people." The fury had blown itself out, but the residual anger still tightened her voice. "All we have now are suppositions, guesses and maybes. Not good enough. Answers, people. We have to have answers. Other people are going to die and it'll be our responsibility." She let her gaze linger on each person for a second. "Meeting adjourned."
She leaned against the table as the silent scientists passed by. Most didn't look at her, but Constance flashed a brief smile while Wanda gave her a quick thumbs-up. Dr. Innes strode by quickly, eyes locked front. Water drops sliding down the wall reflected points of light into her peripheral vision. Poor innocent pitcher. All it ever wanted to do was serve.
Avram patted her shoulder. The left side of his shirt clung wetly to his skin.
"I'm sorr—"
He put up a hand. "Never mind. An occasional cold shower does the soul good."
"I lost control. You want my resignation?"
Avram laughed. "My dear Miranda, whatever for? You did not start the shouting match. I must say though, your method for ending it is rather unique. See you tomorrow."
"Yeah. Better change before you get a chill."
Some leader. She would have lost Dr. Innes if Avram hadn't been there.
Matt stepped forward slowly, stopped at the corner of the table.
"Didn't know you were still here."
He shifted. "Guess I owe you an apology." He pulled a white handkerchief from a lab-coat pocket, began wiping water off the table. "I just felt that Sam was going off—"
"Never mind. An explosion of some sort had to happen sooner or later. Now that it has, perhaps we can settle down." She rubbed her forehead. "Or, maybe not."
She began collecting the scattered papers. "I see you're aware of politics, too."
Matt grunted, stuffed the handkerchief back. He drummed his fingers on the table, looked around, studied the pattern of water on the wall. She expected a sarcastic comment about her pitching ability, but instead he said, "Speaking of the pineal gland, what do the data show?"
"Oh, um, they're clear, little if any pineal sand visible. They've been enlarged slightly, like they are in children, but no other changes have been noted."
"No souls showed up in the X-rays, huh?"
"We're hoping to see changes if the group reaches maturity. If their internal clocks have been reset, then that's likely where. Assuming they grow up again, of course."
"God, it must be frightening not to know that."
"I think it's one reason Mr. Romplin was killed."
Matthew shook his head. "Poor guy."
"Yes." Miranda finished gathering her material. "I daresay his death got to all of us more than we care to admit."
Matt drummed a little more, then said, "Doing anything this evening? I know a great restaurant off the Strip."
Talk about audacious. This man screamed, stood on a table, disrupted a meeting because he's aggressive, boorish and opinionated. Another Samuel Innes in the making.
"You're on. I just hope you're bringing a lot of money."