The Art Of The Houdini Scientist, And The Other Soulless Zombies Who Were Never Here. . .

By TR Nowry

Houdini Scientist: Noun.

1) A young inventor that hides the secrets to her science behind elaborate misdirection and an illusion of incomprehensible complexity, like a magician would.

2) Just another soulless zombie trapped in a secret base that officially doesn't exist.

3) A girl that will save the world, if she can save herself first.

* * *

"Some savants can play concert-level piano at the age of five, without ever taking a lesson. Others can do advanced math in their heads,
draw a Picasso with crayons, or recite every word they've ever read or heard. Her piano was a lathe, a plasma cutter, and an automated mill. And the songs she played shook the world."

* * *

In the control room of a secret mountain base, a dozen engineers crowded around a wall of monitors as the girl on the screens connected the final pieces of a month long, multimillion-dollar project.
"They can't seriously be thinking about turning that thing on, can they?" the new engineer said.
"Believe it."
"She's what, thirteen?"
Stepping closer to the screen, the lead engineer just shook his head, "I've seen her like this before. Almost a trance the—"
"Have you looked closely at that thing?" He pointed to the array of ducts, pipes, and tubes that fed an enormous ring bolted to the ceiling, dripping with frost. "Staring up, it almost looks like a—"
"A Stargate, right out of the TV sho—"
"And they're prepared to let a teenage girl not only build one, but turn it on? Are you crazy?"
Right then she hesitated, held out her hand as if conducting an orchestra, and pointed to the camera.
"God help us," the lead engineer said, sending more power than the entire US grid surging through the alien-looking device.
Booooommmmmm!!!
They plunged into darkness as a muffled explosion rumbled through the base. "Richter 3.9!" someone announced, lights flickering on.
"Get me eyes in that chamber!" the XO said. "I want to see what kind of rabbit she just pulled from our hat."

A much calmer eleven years earlier...

The newly transferred major showed his badge at the gate...

The Art of the Houdini Scientist is a prequel to The Hummingbird Series (Patent Mine, Hell from a Well, The Heredity of Hummingbirds, and Mourning After Dawn) and Daughters of Immortality

Prequel, in this case, literally means it was written years after "Patent Mine" but takes place (within the storyline) before "Patent Mine". Because of this it naturally, and unavoidably ends where the other begins. The books in this series can best be thought of like seasons on TV shows, with "The Art of the Houdini scientist..." as season one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TR Nowry
• Release date: Dec 24, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458042101

TR Nowry

I'm an Indie author living in Bumpass (yes, there really is a place called Bumpass). Indie, in my case, means no cover artist, no editors, and no marketing of any kind. For good or bad, it's just me, a taped together laptop bought in '03, and some horrendous credit card debt for over a decade of typing. The Hummingbird Series was written with each book more like a season on a TV series than what some may expect from a 'traditional' or 'mainstream' series from those Publishing House factories. It starts with The Art of the Houdini Scientist, then continues with Patent Mine, Hell from a Well, The Heredity of Hummingbirds, Mourning after Dawn, Daughters of Immortality, and Waffen, with others on the way. Questions or comments? They're always welcome at my Xanga blog or Facebook (TR Nowry). I'll be sure to answer... on those months I can afford to pay my phone bill. Found some typos and have a hankering to help an indie author instead of hurling stones? Both sites work well for that too. Please continue to support your favorite Indie authors by recommending them to your friends and writing thoughtful reviews, it's the only marketing most of us will ever get!

Book preview

Chapter 1

WARNING

THIS BOOK CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT

AND SHOULD NOT BE READ BY

CHILDREN

It should be noted that this is a prequel to my Hummingbird Series. In this case it means it was literally written years after the series, but takes place before the series begins. As such, it necessarily ends where the next begins, can't be helped.

It's best to think of this series as you would a season you watch on TV. Not every question will be answered for the entire series within just one book, or the first season or episode.

The Art of the Houdini Scientist

and the other soulless zombies who were never here...

by TR Nowry

Some savants can play concert-level piano at the age of five, without ever taking a lesson. Others can do advanced math in their heads, draw a Picasso with crayons, or recite every word they've ever read or heard. Her piano was a lathe, a plasma cutter, and an automated mill. And the songs she played shook the world.

In the control room of a secret base in the Rockies, a dozen engineers crowded around a wall of monitors as the girl on the screens connected the final pieces of a month long, multimillion-dollar project.

They can't seriously be thinking about turning that thing on, can they? the new engineer said.

Believe it.

She's what, thirteen?

Stepping closer to the screen, the lead engineer just shook his head. I've seen her like this before. Almost a trance the way she—

Have you looked at that thing, from the ground I mean? He pointed to the schematics on the large plasma. An array of ducts, pipes, and tubes fed an enormous ring bolted to the ceiling, dripping with frost. Staring up, it almost looks like a—

A Stargate, right out of the TV sho—

And they're prepared to let a teenage girl not only build one, but turn it on? Are you guys crazy?

The girl on the screen stopped what she was doing, hesitated, waved her hand around as if she was conducting an orchestra that only she could see, then pointed to the camera.

God help us, the lead engineer said as they turned it on, and more power than in the entire US grid surged through the alien-looking device.

Booooommmmmm!!!

Dozens of cameras failed, all at the same time, and the entire complex plunged into darkness as the percussion of a muffled explosion rumbled through the base. The desks rattled as books fell from the shelves, pencils and cups spilled to the floor. Richter 3.9! someone announced, lights flickering on.

Get those monitors back up, the XO ordered, I want to see what the hell is going on in there! He pounded the wall beside the monitor, Now!

Getting it, Sir. Only one of the cameras survived the blast, rebooting it. . . now. The engineer gestured to the main plasma. We should see something. . . there! It blinked to life. The ring bolted to the ceiling had melted into clumps dripping stalactites of glowing orange to the floor. Smoke filled the top of the chamber, obscuring everything that wasn't burning within the camera's view.

Get a fire team down there, and get me a camera that can actually see someth—

Sir, switching to infrared.

Better, the XO said, stepping closer to the screen. What's that stuff under the gate?

I don't know, Sir, it wasn't there before. But it's big. Thermal imaging says it's two thousand degrees— No, make that eight hundred degrees— What the hell? It's room temperature already. I don't know, Sir, it's off the screen. Thermal doesn't see it anymore.

The XO pounded his fist into his hand, Get me eyes in that chamber, right now! I want to see what kind of rabbit she just pulled from our hat.

Two men ran from the room as others busied themselves getting the computers back online. . .

A much calmer eleven years earlier. . .

The Major showed his badge to the guard at the gate, was quickly cleared, then drove to the back of a base that oddly looked like a high-end, gated strip mall, complete with fake signs and false windows painted on block walls. After parking the Suburban, he checked his hair in the mirror, adjusted his uniform, then walked into the office for his appointment. He hadn't slept since he got the call last night. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

You've been transferred to a special assignment, Major, the Colonel said, gesturing toward the seat before his desk.

Special assignment? That wasn't what I was told over the pho—

It's an orphan under the highest security clearance. Nothing about it can be discussed, even over a secure phone. A black, off-budget project that— Someone has to take over this thing and turn it around, and you're about the only—

The Major thumbed through the folder just handed to him, This has got to be some sort of joke, right?

The Colonel shook no. It's real, Major. Some civilians convinced the brass to take over this abomination, funneled millions into it, then when the administration changed, everything they had just done became illegal overnight and—

I'll say, I think the UN even outlawed this kind of thing. Why can't we just shut it down? You know, pull the plug?

And do what with all those names in that folder?

The Major flipped to the back and skimmed hundreds of first names, and first names only. Orphaned project, huh? You can't experiment on real orphans, so, where'd they get the stock DNA for the stem cells?

Prisoners and—

Prisoners? Why not from military personnel?

Prisoner DNA came complete with a huge database and hundreds of skills and attributes on long rap sheets that were already indexed and cross referenced. All the info— all the hard work had already been done by the criminal justice system. Ready made, turn key operation that way. Car thief and pickpocket translated into high dexterity, for example, even graded them on number of suspected crimes before getting caught.

I don't know how to fix this, Colonel. How does legal come down on it all?

Well, at the time it was legal, of course, so there's some degree of grandfathering. Hell, up until last year they could have shut it down by putting 'em all in a landfill, but not now. Legal says we can classify them as lifetime enlistees, which puts them under the military justice system and keeps the whole thing under the rug, but just barely. Those with fingerprints on this project want it to disappear, desperately.

I don't know what the hope here is. You're looking at a fifteen or twenty-year investment of capital and effort, and I don't see any way to make any of it back. What were they thinking?

He shrugged, tapping a pen on the desk. "Don't know. Ultimate deniability, I suspect. People without an identity, without a DNA match to anyone but a soup of common criminals. The blackest of black ops, but that's just a guess. It explains why no military DNA was used and criminals were preferred. Everyone associated with it is long gone. Well, except for that list of names in that folder right there. As for the government, they're looking to sever all liability.

Look at us, a lowly colonel and a major. It's no coincidence that any paper trail will stop at our scapegoat ranks. No generals within miles.

You'll get a modest budget that can't be traced, that doesn't appear on any federal line item anywhere. It isn't huge, but it'll do for housing, employees and such. As I see it, you have just a few choices from here.

First, you can play babysitter and just hide it and hope it all sort of goes away on its own. Minimal effort. That's what most people would do.

Second, you can check it out, look it over, evaluate it like you did for us on other lost causes, and try to steer it into something productive for this country, instead of the horrible embarrassment that it is.

Either way, every employee that you hire has to come through the military; and just like you, they will be officially let go for deniability. We are officially divorcing the government from this. It's a redheaded bastard orphan. And it's all yours."

With a wooden squeak, the Major leaned back in the chair. Prisoners, huh? Maybe I should run it like a prison. He thumbed through the file again, checking the dates. They're all infants. Why not put them up for adoption, dump them into the system, say the Coast Guard found them adrift in a sea container or something?

Well, that's another option. I think they're skittish about that, though. Medical oddities might pop up and front page this little operation into a worldwide scandal. One child here or there may fly under the radar, but dump a few hundred into the system and questions are bound to eventually unravel everything and leave the government trying to explain this, uh, abortion of an idea. My God, man, think of the headlines, 'Military clones Frankensteined prisoners for CIA assassin squads'. I think they'd rather there was an 'accident' where they all died in a fire than let them be discovered in adoptions. At least, that was my impression. The Colonel shrugged, I'd evaluate it first, before you make that call.

The Major closed the folder, then tucked it under his arm. He knew he was committed to it, like it or not. But the weight of it kept him pinned in the chair. A weight he doubted he could ever lift. It would be harder than swimming with chains to turn this around. He stared at the Colonel, knowing they had both been volunteered to jump on this live grenade, so some politicians could keep from getting eggs on their faces.

The Colonel signed a sheet on his desk and aimed the form at the Major, Sign at the bottom.

He sighed, leaning in. This wasn't at all what I was expecting. Without a choice, he resigned so he could continue to serve.

Your funds, your calls, your baby. Technically you'll still be under me, but I don't want you clearing anything with me, the chain of command stops with you. He looked over the page, then stared him in the eyes. You're a civilian now, and the CEO of, he scratched his head for a second and flipped through the papers on his desk, oh hell, whatever the damn name they came up with was. Make sure your taxes are filled out right, nobody can help you with the IRS; they're more sadistic and lethal than Al-Qaeda. Remember, I don't make any decisions for you, I just help with resources and employees. He filed the papers into the drawer. As far as the world is concerned, I'm just an old friend you keep in touch with every now and then.

The civilian stood, saluted, and surrendered his military ID as he drove out the gate.

This was not the promotion he had expected.

In the Rockies of Colorado, the military had acquired an entire series of mountains, officially for training, with a small set of buildings located about midway up one's southern side. Middle of nowhere and practically devoid of homes for twenty miles in every direction, it was exactly where he expected to hide just such a clandestine operation.

He wasn't happy about it at all, but he followed orders well.

First thing after relocating, he met with the staff. The meeting lasted a full twenty minutes before he dismissed them.

Nurse, uh, Benita, he said, stick around a second. You're the only one who has been here from the beginning, right?

She nodded as the rest of the staff left to continue with their normal duties.

What, uh, huh. . . he scratched his head, I see where they had over three thousand children when they started, but they're down to just a few hundred now. How were the selections, uh, how were—

We, she looked away and shook her head, they graded them. Defects, looks, eye-hand mostly, some intellectual evaluations, and a lot simply because they were girls. In the usual nine months it took to go from scientific theory to reality, the budget, and the project, radically changed. She looked him in the eyes, almost angry. Any teen-mom could have told them making babies was the easy part. She looked away again. We had only so many automated teaching units, you see, and no funds for more, or regular teachers. Even on rotating sleeping schedules, ten could share a single teaching unit only so long. Only the smartest of each group was. . . kept. She looked down, Budgets. A tough call, really. Glad I didn't have to make it.

She was being kind, but the irony was breathtaking. When read into the program the day before, he had discovered the reductions were planned from the beginning. The same politicians that routinely called the military 'baby killers' thought up this abomination and made those selections. Only people who thought of embryos as lumps of cells could dream of such things, and her visible discomfort spoke well of her. Out of morbid curiosity he wanted to ask the actual mechanics of what happened to 90% of them, but felt it was better if he didn't really know, for legal reasons. Besides, it was a practice he planned to discontinue. That did provide him with another question, however. So these are the top ten percent then, right from birth. Any truly outstanding?

She visibly relaxed. We had one, or thought we did. A girl built to an unbelievable vocabulary of over five thousand words in each of sixteen languages by nine months. Or, at least we thought she had. She's never spoken. It's now our opinion that she was simply lucky with the auto—

Wait. He shook his head, I guess I don't understand this automated teaching thing, then. Explain that to me.

She sat, crossing her legs. "Well, think crib with a computer screen over it and a school teacher giving standard courses. The infants are fitted in suits with reflective chips so the computer can grade their responses. Since a computer is limited in what it can evaluate, it's essentially all multiple choice.

Think a primitive version of sign language. She made a few gestures with her arms. Most of the videos were commercially sold as a kind of educational video games anyway, we just tweaked the interface for children unable to work a keyboard or mouse.

Anyway, we had lots of other high scorers in it, but most mastered just a handful of languages or a few subjects. The one girl defied probability and seemed to master them all. But, like I said, we've revised that. She must have noticed some sort of pattern, shading, or artifact in the program that let her pick the right answer every time. Like how sometimes you can see a hidden door in a video game by the way it's drawn. We never figured out what she saw that gave it away, though."

He had wondered what taught them, since the staff and his budget was way too small to employ the masses of teachers they would need to give them all individualized instruction. Since all those that weren't compatible with this form of digital learning were eliminated, it simplified things greatly. But it was about as moral as teaching them to run faster by letting wolves thin the class, eating the slowest ones. The learning systems are still being used then, right?

Yeah, with keyboards and mice, now that they have the motor dexterity to work them. Several hours a day, every day, as often as we can work them in. It's very economical, mostly commercial stuff, and we have material all the way to advanced college courses, thanks to E-Diplomas. But again, no essays and nothing other than multiple choice.

Interesting, he said. I bet diapers are a nightmare for hundreds.

Actually, no. They were all toilet trained by one. Most only had problems making it through the night. They're all a little creepy that way. Like little soulless zombies. She stood, hand on the doorknob, looking visibly uncomfortable again, before staring him in the eyes, You'll see what I mean soon enough. It's like they're, she shrugged, empty. . . or something. Missing something.

Toilet trained by one? How far ahead are these kids?

She paused, They're about two years old, chronologically, but they test, on average, about where you would expect a five-year-old. Walking, eye-hand coordination, and speech with almost all of them. A few even higher, but even the bottom test around where a three-year-old would be. Their lives are extremely structured, teaching, tasks, training, testing, then bed. Military discipline seems to work well.

He headed for the door. I'd like to see a typical day, review some of the curricula they're—

She stood in his way. Well, what requires a human instructor, they do as a group, but the vast majority of their instruction is done individually. Since the 'teachers' are computerized, they progress at their own pace and quickly diverged from each other. We think that is, at least in part, what is responsible for their rapid advances, since none of them are subjected to peer pressure or held back by their slowest members. At least, not with the automated classes. But I can provide you with their grades and the tests that they took, she pointed at the terminal, that's all on the base's server.

Yes, that's perfect. Thank you, he said, getting comfortable behind his new office desk.

She logged him onto the system and pulled up the appropriate files before leaving for her chores. He was so new, his codes didn't work, yet.

Mismatching monitors, towers, keyboards and cables were everywhere in the building, even their servers were cobbled and recycled from discarded leftovers of Pentagon upgrades, but were more than adequate for the tasks at hand. The computer graphed and charted every detail of every student, down to the seconds it took them to answer each question.

The problem he had almost instantly was that of perspective. This was like a science experiment without any control subjects. None of them were allowed to grow normally. None of them were allowed to play. They were kept focused and loaded down with tasks every waking hour, with military efficiency.

Well, that wasn't entirely true about not having control subjects. He had a child that was about two.

His son couldn't type complete words or sentences, like all of these could. His son didn't have a vocabulary of thousands of words, nor could he talk in complete, rational sentences in even one language. All but one of these could.

He investigated the highest-scoring girl in question, oddly also at the top of the list to be deleted for not communicating.

Luck seemed impossible as a factor in math. Math wasn't multiple choice, it required typing actual answers. She was answering ninth grade questions with almost 100% accuracy. He clicked on the last test she took.

A complex word problem popped up, and before he even finished reading the sentence, she had answered it correctly. Six seconds was her average response time. Six seconds was about as fast as he could type, but he took a minute or more and got the trick question wrong.

He investigated further and clicked on her origin tab.

Three embezzlers, a terrorist bomb maker, a famous mob hit man even he recognized by name, two car thieves, and about two dozen others, plus some cells intended for autism research.

Autism.

She had never spoken. 'Avoids eye contact' was all over her file. Autism would make sense with her rapid advances in math. It could also give her a way to 'see' the pattern in multiple-choice answers, without actually learning the languages.

He clicked more links and started to read.

Near the end of the gene-splicing experiment, someone had a Rain Man / Beautiful Mind thought and added autism into the mix of 'leftovers'. The cynical side of him bet it had to do with qualifying for more research funds. Officially it was an afterthought, simply because they had the extra incubators and abundant embryonic stem cells. She was the only one in that batch that survived the aggressive weeding process.

Even their names were computer generated.

Toilet trained, highly disciplined, and all reading and doing math on advanced levels. All where multilingual.

His son was just making rough sentences.

The Colonel was right. This warranted a thorough investigation before he made any rash decisions or changes of policy. What they were doing seemed to be working. It would probably require a few years of careful evaluation before he could decide on an appropriate course of action. Clearly lots of potential was here, waiting to be found. Perhaps some good could come from it.

For now, he had adopted this orphan.

Chapter 2

Left hand, the voice said.

A picture of a woman holding up her left hand was projected on the screen.

Left hand, the voice said again.

BZZZZZZ!!!! A strobe light went off in the infant's face.

This is a left hand, the woman's voice said again. Show me your left hand.

The infant covered her eyes with her arm before the light flashed and it buzzed again.

Left hand, the voice relentlessly repeated until the infant complied.

The next picture appeared on the screen and the instructions continued in a new language.

The infant tried to sit in her crib. The screen covered the top; the sides were opaque and solid. She crawled to the foot and continued to explore. She could touch all four sides, should she stretch just right. It seemed solid, but she knew it was not. She had seen it open before. She pressed against it again.

BZZZZZZ! Flash!

She complied with its instruction.

She pressed her ear against the side and tried to focus on the voices outside her crib. This is our most promising one, a muffled woman said. We are having compliance problems with it recently, but it is thirty-two tapes ahead of any other, six languages so far, about two thousand words in each, and shows an aptitude for numbers and—

BZZZZZ! Flash!

. . . terminate 10% of the low scores, a muffled man said. Embryos are cheap, those learning pods are killing our budget.

Kill them? the woman said with sadness. They're just—

Replaceable, nurse Ben—

BZZZZZ! Flash!

Shadona woke in the darkened room, heart pounding. She wiped her cheeks and rubbed her fingers across her closed eyes. One of the few survivors, she looked across the room, lit by a single nightlight.

A dozen children, all around her age, were stuffed into this tiny room, with dozens of other rooms just like it down the hall.

Expensive. She remembered the word expensive, and associated it with terminations. Those terminated weren't flawed, simply expendable to the budget. Under performers.

She crawled to the edge of her bed and stared at the distant floor. She was only two, if she understood the nurses correctly, and their numbers had been cut to a tenth of what they once were. Most of the girls like herself were gone, but plenty of boys too. She wanted to leave the room, but she knew the floor was covered in sensors and an alarm would sound before she could get even a few steps from the bed.

Bari was asleep in the bunk above hers. All the infants in this room were fast asleep, except her. She didn't sleep well, most nights.

The combination to the door leading out into the main hall was 6-1-4-9-3-2, though one of the men, who seemed new and in charge, used another number, 9-8-2-3-1-7-0-1-7-2. Each person seemed to have a different number, and each lock, she assumed, would only allow certain numbers to pass through them. She memorized all the numbers she had ever seen, but assumed the man in charge could open all doors, since his code had three extra digits. It didn't matter at the moment, however, because the only keypad on this door was mounted in the hall. She even knew the code to disarm the floor, yet its pad was just as unreachable and located outside the room. Thwarted, she stared at the floor while she listened.

I've got to get home early tonight, a woman said in the hall outside the room. Jason is in over his head with our eight month old.

They can be a handful, the night guard said, muffled by the door.

Oh, the poor guy. She won't go to sleep without a long lullaby and about twenty minutes of rocking.

You ought to enroll her here for two week—

Shadona leaned forward at the sounds of a scuffle— the woman had punched the guard, but he didn't react like it was an attack and seemed to simply shrug it off.

Hush your mouth, the woman said, I'm not having my child turn into a soulless zombie like one of them! Not in a million years.

Clearly offended, her heels made a louder-than-usual echo down the hall.

Shadona rested her head on the pillow again.

'One of them'

'Zombie'

'Lullaby'

'Rocking'

'Home'

She knew all the words, but had never been told a lullaby. Had never been rocked in someone's arms. Had never had someone in a hurry to see her.

She, was one of them.

The lights flickered on as the tubes started to hum.

Everyone up and on the floor, the Drill Sergeant ordered. On the floor, on the floor!

She climbed down the ladder before Bari above her and assembled in a straight line with all the other children on her side of the room.

Straighten. Straighten, the Drill Sergeant said, and the children quietly complied. Nobody would be allowed to eat, drink, or use the bathroom until the line was perfect and everyone was quiet.

The Drill Sergeant marched between the lines, then back to the front of the room.

Green line, yellow line, blue line. Go, he said, opening the door to the hall.

Her side of the room waited until the other side made it out the door before following them. Green line, yellow line, blue line meant the dexterity testing room.

It also meant bathrooms and food.

An assortment of nuts, bolts, washers, and parts were arrayed on the table in front of each child, with blinders such that no child could see what the other was working on. A whistle blew when a green light lit and a diagram of the finished project was displayed.

Twenty-six children worked as fast as possible to assemble the project. Only the first eighteen of them to complete it would get breakfast.

She assembled most of it as quickly as possible, then stopped with the last four parts, and waited. The first five would get a dessert with their meal, and eight of the boys fought ferociously to get that bonus. She had gotten the prize once, and got hit in the head with a plate later that day by one of the boys she beat out.

She didn't want a dessert that bad. She aimed for the middle and was rather consistent at getting the tenth, eleventh, or twelfth meal.

She waited, pieces in hand, as other children ran with their completed projects to exchange them for food.

She waited her turn.

What did we designate that one? the Major asked the nurse while reviewing the daily videos.

Shadona, she said. She only scored top five once, finishes near the middle. She's the only girl that hasn't spoken yet. She typed a few keys, Physical said she's healthy, though. No medical reason that we can find for her silence.

He leaned in and pointed to the screen, Rewind that, please.

Sure.

Bring up the other children, synchronized, same screen if you can.

She clicked the keys.

Interesting. Bring up the last month of dexterity exercises and run them at 16x.

She clicked away, and they watched for a few minutes.

Why hasn't anyone brought this to my attention?

The nurse played the video again, What, I don't see anything?

She almost finishes the project a full six minutes faster than any other kid, and stops. Not just once, but for weeks. This is the kind of thing that we are looking for.

She reviewed it again, as the Major walked away.

Shadona sat in front of the monitor, headphones on, fingers poised at the keys. Bored out of her mind. The woman's voice was distracting, but fortunately the lesson's text and questions were displayed at the bottom half of the screen. Clicking 'Skip' turned the page and cut her monologue short, but she couldn't skip the questions and answers at the end of each chapter. She would prefer to skip entire chapters, but it wasn't allowed.

She stared at the screen, barely able to focus. Fortunately, she didn't need to. The answers seemed obvious, when she could finally reach them.

Congratulations, the voice said, music in the background, You have completed this section with a then the voice shifted to clunky and artificial, ninety-eight percent. The music shifted to a tension building, quickening tempo, then the voice came back, Welcome to organic chemistry, advanced level three.

She adjusted her posture as she checked the clock on the bottom right of the screen. She had another forty minutes of this boredom to endure.

Assemble at the desks, left to right, first come, the instructor said as the line of children marched into the dexterity room. At the whistle, open your box and assemble your project. Talking will be punished by forfeiting half of your lunch. First eighteen will receive a full ration.

The children stood at attention beside their assigned mini-cubicles, all to the right of the chair.

When they were perfectly quiet and at full attention, the instructor blew the whistle and said, Have a seat and begin.

She opened her box, glanced inside, then closed the box again.

The Major stared at the monitor as he reviewed the experiment.

I don't get it, nurse Benita said, what's she doing?

He leaned back and snickered. I instructed that a single washer be removed from her box so she wouldn't have enough pieces to complete it. He checked the time code from when she opened the box until the time she closed it, Eight seconds. It took her eight seconds to see that it didn't have enough pieces. Faced with complaining, she didn't. She didn't even turn her head to look at the instructor. But she didn't waste time trying to assemble it either. Today was just for a half ration. Tomorrow I've instructed the same experiment, but that time it'll cost her lunch. I want to see what it'll take to get her to talk. He was reluctant to alter the educational curricula of the previous administration when it was showing such spectacular results, across the board.

She went without lunch for a week.

She sat at the desk, opened the box, then closed the box again.

The instructor stomped behind her. You will participate in this exercise, he yelled, right beside her ear.

But she didn't move.

The instructor dumped the contents of the box onto the desk, You will assemble the project, right now.

She said nothing, did nothing.

He grabbed her hands and forcefully placed them on the table. But as soon as he let go, she returned them to her lap. You will comply. You will complete this task or you won't get anything to eat today.

She shrugged, placed her hands on the edge of the desk, pushed her chair back, and headed toward the door. Only to be forcibly returned to the chair and shoved back to the desk.

Start now!

She silently refused.

Seated in the dining room, full plate on the table before her, she sat silently, as instructed.

Everyone, the instructor said as her hunger deepened, take one forkful from her plate before getting a plate of your own.

She stared at her plate as the food slowly disappeared. Most smiled with glee as they sank their forks into her ever-diminishing meal. She stared, but didn't cry. Instead, she slowly rocked forward and back.

As the last child was fed, the instructor dumped what was left in the trash. Maybe you'll obey next time.

She sat in a room filled with the clatter of meals being consumed, while her stomach rumbled.

She refused again the following day, and her punishment was repeated.

The Major reviewed the video and was looking over the reports when Benita entered his office. Can I help you? he said.

It's now becoming a nutritional development issue, she said. Besides, I'm not sure you can break someone from silence by denying her dinner.

Point noted. Let's supplement with vitamins for now, see if we can get her to—

Supplements will just prevent— She won't continue to develop on just supplements. It's been a week now, a week of one meal a day. We'll be talking stunted growth soon.

Put her on supplements and we'll continue for one more week. She will start communicating, one way or another.

She nodded, then left the room.

Chapter 3

Have a seat, and. . . begin, the instructor said, blowing the whistle.

She sat, folded her arms on the desk and rested her head, box unopened.

The instructor pulled her chair out from under her, You will stand at attention if this is going to be your attitude, he said.

She sat on the floor and crawled under the desk.

The instructor grabbed her foot and dragged her— When the door to the room opened, the instructor let go and stood at attention. Major, he said.

A man she had never met knelt before the desk, Come with me, he said, offering her a hand.

Reluctantly, she complied.

A plate of food sat on his desk, steam wafting off the chicken and mixed vegetables with broccoli. The mashed potatoes were covered in a golden, thick gravy. The smell in the room was driving her crazy, but she simply sat in the chair as instructed, and waited.

The Major scribbled a complex formula onto a sheet of paper, then slid it across the table to the child. If you can complete this formula, I'll give you this plate.

She was starving, but didn't know this man. She knew what to expect from all the others. She could predict their reactions fairly easily, but she had never interacted with him before. She lifted the pencil and glanced at the equation. She looked him in the eyes, briefly, then pulled the page closer and scribbled the answer.

He looked it over, then slid her the plate.

She ate as fast as she could.

He typed at the keyboard, then turned to the child, Why not complete the assembly? You've been getting an 'incomplete' for weeks.

She pulled the plate closer, in case he should renege.

He turned the monitor so she could see the screen, then played the video. She watched, captivated for a few seconds by the child on the screen, then abruptly turned and scanned the ceiling for—

There are no cameras in this room, he said, then smiled at the child.

She stared him in the eyes, briefly, glanced at the screen, then returned her focus to the plate, pushing a chunk of chicken through the gravy and potatoes before shoveling it into her mouth.

You're clearly very bright. He clicked his way to another video, See here, you complete all but the last few pieces a full six minutes before anyone else. And these aren't easy projects they have you working on. Kids three times your age would take twice as long, and even then most would fail to assemble it correctly. You should be proud.

She glanced at the screen, but focused on the food quickly being consumed. She paused, suddenly compelled to separate the mixed vegetables for a full minute before she could continue to eat.

As she approached the end of the plate, he pulled a box from under his desk, then dumped the contents before her. Show me how far you can assemble this one.

She glanced at the parts, the empty plate, then sat back in her chair and stared at the floor.

Please, he said, just do the best you can.

She paused. Please was the word the video instructor often used. It sounded strange coming from a living person. Eventually, she leaned toward the desk, examined the parts, then sat back in her seat again.

He smiled. What's missing?

She pulled two bolts and a small washer out to the side, then sat back again.

Why didn't you do that with the instructor?

She stared at the floor.

What can you make with these parts?

She rocked back and forth.

He shrugged, pulled a KitKat from the desk, then broke off a piece and handed it to her.

She gobbled it, then looked over the parts again.

Just make anything you want from it, see what you come up with. There's no right or wrong answer.

She ran her fingers across the top of the assorted parts, but did nothing with them.

After a few minutes, he handed her the rest of the bar and told her to rejoin her class.

She noted that his door had the same keypad on the outside as all the others, but was unlike any she had seen. It wasn't locked to those inside the room. He could leave any time he wanted.

He was the one with the extra digits.

Yes, good morning, he said over the phone. This is retired Major Brigspan calling for Colonel Westingale. . . Yes, thank you, I'll wait.

He looked over the scribbled equation. It looked right, but he had gotten it off the internet, so his trust level with it wasn't very high. Autism and savants ran hand in hand, sometimes. Math was a marketable skill, lucrative in some niche applications. But it wasn't his area. He needed to hire a professional, and his company couldn't just put an ad in the paper.

He discussed his idea with the Colonel before leaving for the day.

The next morning, six faxes were waiting for him in his office. Each was a complex formula that needed solving. None of them had, to his knowledge, ever been solved. A true test of a savant, if there ever was one. But perhaps an unreasonable test of a two-year-old.

She was pulled from the dexterity class and delivered to his office.

Can you solve this equation? he asked, pushing the first one in front of her.

She glanced at it, paused, then sat back in the chair.

What about this one? he turned to another.

She glanced, but showed no interest.

How about this one? He unwrapped a KitKat while she looked.

She was interested, but just in the candy.

He showed her the rest, but she offered no help. It may well have been beyond her, even with her math scores near college level. He broke off a piece and gave it to her anyway, while he contemplated what her silent problem may be. Thinking of her obstinance in assembling with missing pieces, he pointed to the one on top, What's wrong with this one?

She stared at it for a second, then circled six figures in the equation.

What about the others? he said, giving over the rest of the candy.

She leafed through the rest, circling what could be entirely random parts for all he knew.

Thank you, he said, Go to the cafeteria and get a real lunch.

He faxed the pages back and waited for a response.

She was not a savant. None of the equations were 'flawed', according to their authors.

Disheartened to find his hunch was wrong, he had nonetheless established a dynamic with the child. Others punished, he rewarded. Good cop, bad cop. He looked over the computerized reports. She was the highest flyer in math. The computer even let her skip grades because of her high scores. But math wasn't her only marketable skill. According to the file, she was fluent in every language they had courses for. Most were provided by the CIA to bring spies up to speed on our enemies and went far beyond vocabulary and sentence structure and even delved into slang and regional dialects. He placed another call and requested copies of intercepts that needed analyzing.

They arrived in his inbox as MP3s. Forty hours worth.

She sat at his desk and waited. A plate of food was already there, covered with a dome to keep it warm, the smell saturating the room.

The door opened behind her, and the Major crossed the room to the big chair behind the desk. I haven't given up on you yet, he said. "They want to reduce your rations as punishment for obstinance, but I don't think that's wise. Worse, I don't think it's a particularly helpful way to get you to communicate more.

In these files is a needle in a haystack. We know that the enemies of your country have hidden a secret message in these files of seemingly casual conversations. They have a clandestine plan to harm us, but I think you can help. I think you can find their plot in all these taps. I want you to give it a try while you eat, ok?"

She stared at the ground, then looked at the terminal turned her way. She moused over the first file, clicked it, then opened a second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth—

The conversations blurred together into an indecipherable noise, One at a time, he said.

She continued to click until they were all open before starting to eat.

The noise was annoying, but soon it sounded like a crowded room, or cafeteria. Within the hour, she had listened to all of them, deleted all but three, and wrote Philadelphia, bridge, and Tuesday the 25th.

He flagged the three files and emailed back the warning.

Chapter 4

By age three, her insights had thwarted six attacks and led to the decimation of four terrorist cells overseas, and one at home. Yet, limitations were becoming apparent. Though she could focus on dozens of conversations simultaneously, he noticed she could only remain focused for an hour a day, even when restricted to a single conversation at a time. That still meant she could analyze in one hour of one day what a trained professional took almost a week to review. Consensus was it had something to do with the large number of languages she was fluent in, but nobody knew for sure. Since she couldn't possibly transcribe dozens of conversations within an hour, she only wrote down the relevant info and flagged the file. But detailed transcripts from her taps, done by others, yielded nothing out of the ordinary, even to the ears of trained professionals. Yet her tips came with results.

She was a proven asset, and he was deploying her to the advantage of his company, and country.

Over the last year they had added code breaking to the children's curricula, and mixed real wiretaps into their testing, with limited success. Twenty-three other children proved capable of accurately transcribing large amounts of intercepts, but failed at divining the hidden meanings behind them. To them, they sounded like typical conversations. Transcripts, though useful, didn't provide the same clues she was honing into. And her talent didn't seem teachable, nor was she interested in sharing. She was still the only child that had yet to speak.

The staff's best guess was that because languages came so easily to her, she didn't listen to the words themselves, but how they were subconsciously pronounced. Much like a mobster might hesitate slightly while ordering 'flowers' to be 'delivered', she had an ear for words and phrases that were unnatural, out of place, or broke the expected flow, and a mind that quickly found meanings from context. But