Blank Slate

By Ron Graves

The definition of suspense is: Blank Slate
How would those at the highest levels of government and power react when they learn of classified technology which would enable them to totally control others...remotely?
Darren Vance propelled his biotech company to national prominence; but this new microscopic device, intended to revolutionize science and medicine, ignites covert attention from the White House and Beijing. Darren’s brother, a famous trial attorney and political fundraiser, has ties to both. When First Lady Mansfield and General Sheng Tao plot the theft of this technology, they swerve two powerful countries onto a collision course. Can they be stopped?
Betrayal, blackmail, treason and murder thrust the President and First Lady toward looming peril, where millions could die. For Darren, his daughter, and the world, the nightmare is just beginning.
If you’ve struggled to find a fast-paced suspense thriller and you don’t mind losing sleep, then Blank Slate is your read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron Graves
• Release date: Jun 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458131959

Ron Graves

Ron Graves was born in San Diego and graduated from San Diego State University with a double major in biology and history and a minor in journalism. After college, he opened a small chain of restaurants and then began a career in commercial real estate. Later, he opened his own agency, interacting with private development companies, as well as the politicians governing their pursuits. Years of observing and learning how differing factions promoted their political views into creating projects, supplied Graves with valuable insights.Those insights brought him back to an unfulfilled desire to write a novel. Long an admirer of writers such as Robert Ludlum, Steve Martini, Tess Gerritsen, Michael Crichton and Vince Flynn, Graves launched more aggressively into novel writing about 15 years ago. In addition to his first novel, Blank Slate, his second book, Moving Parts, will be released in the summer of 2013. He’s currently working on his third.Ron lives in San Diego and travels extensively.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Kane Irving, short, the physique of an addicted TV watcher, stared out of the 40th floor window. To the east, the Brooklyn Bridge faded into snowfall. Through the south glass wall he could just see the spire of New York City Hall. The headache had eased but claustrophobia pressed in on him as cigarette smoke filled the air like London fog, settling on the huge conference table like beached flotsam. What the hell was wrong with the AC in this place? These damn chain-smoking Chinese couldn’t be bothered with our rules and laws.

Another bolt shot through his head, forcing him to turn away from the others at the conference table. This was no damn headache. And this first wave hit harder than earlier in the day. He pictured lab animals going berserk after an experiment months ago.

Kane’s opposite, tall, athletic Brad Vance, concluded the presentation to the Chinese contingent, five around the table and another four sitting in Beijing, on the teleconference screen. A blue haze shrouded the wall mounted plasma screen. As you know, Mr. Irving, Brad nodded toward Kane, is the lead on these projects, and I, as the legal counsel, board member and head of security, will make the final decisions on—

Sorry, Kane interrupted. Projects? Why the hell does he keep pushing the idea of more than one issue? Thought we were only discussing the LaserWorx program?

Brad tried to drink the generic brand smoothie sitting in front of him, but nearly spit it back into the bottle. He glared at Kane, and then standing, BlackBerry in hand, said, Will you please excuse me? Turning, he left the room with apparent urgency, the door closing sharply.

The pain in Kane’s head briefly abated, but he cringed at Brad’s exit. Time was not his friend. Angling his wrist, he glimpsed his watch. Three fifty. The possibility of missing his flight ramped up his stress, but he grappled for control. With a gesture, Kane caught the attention of the host, General Sheng Tao. If you’re encouraged by this presentation, this will be much clearer when you’re in San Diego for the onsite ship demonstration. He’d disagreed strongly with Brad about sharing the LaserWorx information with the Chinese, but he sure as hell wasn’t giving them the blueprints. Abruptly, as he popped out the flash drive, his hearing and vision faded, as if a cloud had descended around him. An inexplicable pressure froze him in place.

What seemed to be a distant voice said, Are you okay? Then someone patted his face. Kane, are you alright? He opened his eyes. Brad hovered, while the others moved in close, looking down at him. He pushed up on an elbow, but the lack of explanation annoyed him. What?

Brad spoke in undertones. Damn dude, you really embarrassed us.

Kane sat up, noticing his wet hands and face, his drenched coat sleeves. What the—

We have a doctor on staff here at the consulate, someone said in broken English, then handed him a face towel. He shall arrive momentarily.

Brad helped him back into his chair, whispering, Evidently, you threw the water pitcher straight up, yelling something. Splashed it all over yourself, and then jumped one of these guys. He turned and gazed at the group, smiling. As you can see, the stress from this LaserWorx project can be stressful.

Kane checked his watch again. Three fifty-five. What the hell? Five minutes had disappeared. He reached for Brad’s wrist. We need to go.

Brad nodded. I need to catch a later flight. I re-booked you on the six o’clock, United.

Kane started to ask when and why, but was stopped when the conference room door opened.

The doctor walked in and started running through some questions and a physical examine. After several minutes, he closed Kane’s shirt and tore off the blood pressure cuff. Mr. Irving, you seem to be just fine, but I recommend no traveling. In fact, an overnight stay might be best.

No, really, I’m fine. I need to get home. My wife and son can’t handle things without me. He smiled as most politely agreed, laughing.

Brad stepped around the doctor. The limo couldn’t wait, so you’ll need to catch a cab.

We should call Darren. Let him know—

Dude, I’ll take care of my brother. Just get to the airport. He tapped his watch, as if emphasizing the time. I’ll fix things here.

Kane waited for the group to focus on him. Again, my deepest apologies for this outburst and thank you for your courtesies and time. His gaze caught the one man who’d not laughed a moment ago. Was he the one that he’d attacked? He really needed to get out this place.

Outside on the street, the snow had returned as nightfall descended. The chill cut right through all layers of clothing. His soaked suit coat sleeves made it worse. Now four-thirty and traffic had swelled to holiday stagnation. First a woman, then a man jumped his cab. Merry Christmas, he thought. On the third attempt, he snagged a taxi by leaping into the road; a passing car brushed him back. No harm done, but several horns blasted and a few pedestrians screamed.

Seemed to take forever just to get out of the city and over the Brooklyn Bridge. Lines of snow arched the windshield. His gaze slid from the taxi’s screeching wiper blades to the driver’s turban.

Today was such a fiasco. Brad demanding him to give the Chinese what they wanted. Crazy ass. No way. But the outburst. Was Brad telling him the truth? Had he really tried to kill that guy? Kane felt the sweat rising to the surface, flushing. Jesus, he tried to kill him? My god, what the hell was wrong with him? Now he wasn’t even sure. Had he actually given the Chinese the secret technology while Brad was out of the room? He was screwed. Job? Gone. Wife and family? Gone. Prison for sure.

The blinding headache returned and he quickly reached for his pen to take some notes before all thought and actions would seize up again. The Mont Blanc slipped from his fingers and dropped between the seat and door. Damn. He plunged his hand into the space and pulled up more than just the pen. Brownish goo slicked his thumb. He raised it to his face and recoiled as tobacco stench shot up his nose. God.

Is there a problem sir?

The driver’s Indian accent confused him at first. What? No, nothing. He yanked out his handkerchief and wiped off the nasty slime. Done, he tossed it to the floor. Clean your cab much?

The man eyed Kane in the mirror. I beg your pardon?

Suddenly, Kane felt his composure blowing up, a cloud descending as it had earlier. He fought for control. I really need to make this flight.

The driver’s eyes narrowed and he pointed ahead. I understand sir, but…

Kane could see brake lights running to infinity. Christmas. Everybody’s heading to Kennedy. The headache pounded him again as sweat tumbled down his spine. Twisting to catch the Manhattan skyline through the rear window, his neck muscles bit into him, forcing him back around. Through the sticker-covered side window, he peered at the heavier snowfall. Resurging pain shot through his head. Never had he experienced anything like this. Paralyzing. A bead of perspiration dropped from eyebrow to cheekbone, but he made no effort to wipe it. The pine scent of the air freshener hanging from the headrest, pushed bile into his throat with a slight gag reflex.

Sir, are you sure you are ok?

Kane’s gaze jerked toward the driver again. How about turning off the heat? His tone was sharp, demanding. He slipped out of his overcoat, leaving it crumpled on the seat next him. The increasing snowfall and onrushing flakes, snake-charmed him into silence.

***

Kane realized the driver was yelling at him.

"Sir, we are here!"

What— He spotted the sign, Departure.

Please, sixty-doo dollars.

Okay, okay. His headache gone, he pulled bills from his pocket and handed the driver a hundred. Need a receipt. He grabbed the sticky, stained armrest, shoved open the door, and then paused. Please.

He snatched the receipt, grabbed his coat and clambered out of the cab. Swirling dime-sized snowflakes swamped him with vertigo, forcing him to plant his feet on the sidewalk to regain his balance. Calm momentarily anchored him, but shivers took over. He slipped on his trench coat, as the headache returned with tentacles shooting down into his shoulders.

HEY.

He turned back to the taxi, blinking away snowfall.

The cabby thumbed toward the back seat. Bags.

My God, thanks. He raked up his gear from the seat and stepping back onto the sidewalk, popped up the wheeled-bag handle and rushed toward the terminal.

The cabby yelled something in Hindi, and then said, Asshole!

Kane glanced over his shoulder.

The driver ran around the back of the car, slipped, his turban toppling into the slush, bald head exposed. Regaining his turban and footing, the guy kicked the back door shut, and flipped him off.

Kane turned away. Jerk. He’d just given this guy a ridiculous tip. After a few strides he stopped to read the way signs. He felt so tired. The terminal seemed so far away now…he needed rest…just a few seconds…at least his headache had eased again.

Are you okay, sir?

He lifted his eyes to a tall, thin skycap. Excuse me?

The smiling man reached for the wheelie. Can I help you with this?

Following the skycap’s open palm, he noticed his own fist gripping the handle, both glazed in snow. Have I been standing here long?

Well, a bit, sir.

Thanks anyway. I’ve got it. More chills racked his body, yet he was still sweating. He had to get out of here.

Inside the terminal the security screening line looked short for near-Christmas. He reached into his travel case, grasping the iPad in one of the pockets, and then tramped straight for the automated boarding pass printer. Got to get on that plane. But Brad had changed their reservations. Now he had…which seat? Several men seemed to focus on him, pushing new fears to the surface. He knew they’d been following him. He pulled up his reservation on the machine. Christ. 19E. Damn middle seat. Halfway to the back in a Boeing 767.

He tried to locate his stalkers as he moved to the end of the security check-in. Gone, but the line, which moments ago seemed short, had stopped moving. The entire row of screening machines sat idle. The area buzzed with a throng of extra security guards. He leaned toward the woman in front of him. What’s going on?

She half-turned, making brief eye contact. There’s been a breach.

A few seconds later an announcement blared over the public address speakers. Please remain where you are. All those previously screened for United flights 794, 6785 and 417 will be brought back for re-screening. Thank you for your patience.

The herd of travelers immediately turned from confused cows into disgruntled bulls, boosting his anxiety. Shit.

The woman gave him a sidelong glance.

Sorry. He looked away, spotting the departure screen and re-verified his gate and time. United flight 522 to San Diego had been delayed and was departing in one hour. The crush of returning passengers for a second screening and the worsening weather could cause them to cancel his flight.

From the secured body scanning area, two men in suits emerged, marching directly toward him.

Don’t move, he thought. Stay calm. He’d done nothing to interest these guys. He broke eye contact as they drew close, then stopped. Only a step away he could hear them talk. Do they have guns, he wondered. He listened for key words while brushing away sweat dotting his forehead.

One of them laughed. Hell no. They’ll kick the Chargers’ ass.

Kane’s breathing eased back. His face flushed and his pulse dropped, forcing a silent laugh at his paranoia. Calm returned when the TSA screeners, appearing to have no interest in him, waved him through. With the most tranquility he’d felt in days, he nearly walked away toward United Gate 28, with a school-boy jaunt.

In the waiting area he found the only seat available was between a woman struggling with her toddler and a man who needed two chairs. Oh Jesus, forget it.

While leaning against a nearby column, he tried to assess the weather from what he saw through the floor-to-ceiling terminal windows and the hanging television. He’d never seen snow falling as heavy as it had in the past twenty minutes.

By the time everyone was seated on the plane, the outside temperature had dropped another ten degrees. He loosened his tie, feeling the moisture collecting around his neck.

The captain’s voice crackled over the P.A. Folks, sorry, but we’ll have about a twenty minute delay while maintenance completes de-icing.

Kane moaned, wishing he’d never made this trip. He missed his family, but mixed and oppressive thoughts kept intruding. Thoughts he’d never experienced in his life. And they all seemed to end up in the same place, bad endings to Shannon’s pregnancy. She’d had a horribly difficult time with Johnny, now four. But with Shannon expecting, she was entering that critical third month again.

De-icing finally completed, the 767 bumped and crept toward the runway and the captain came back on the P.A. Well, the good news is we have our place in the pecking order for takeoff. The bad news is we’re number thirty-three in the conga line.

I don’t believe this. Kane noticed several people turning to look at him. Embarrassed, not realizing he’d voiced his complaint out loud, he dropped his head back against the seat. He stripped off his tie, letting it slip through his fingers and onto the floor.

After the captain announced another delay, Kane fidgeted non-stop. Let’s fly this damn thing.

Again, scowls faced him down, juicing his anxiety.

A woman next to him, in the aisle seat, reached across and touched his arm, barely hiding fear. You want to switch seats? You know, in case you get sick?

I'll be fine. He looked up at a passing flight attendant. Excuse me, ma’am?

She half-turned. Yes, sir?

Do you think I could have a Scotch soda?

I'm sorry, she said, but no alcoholic beverages until twenty minutes after takeoff.

But... He pointed toward the front of the plane, while rubbing his brow.

That's first class. I'm sorry. She leaned closer. Sir, are you all right?

Did he look as bad as he felt? Fine. Thanks. Jesus, now he felt like a whiney pre-teen. Humiliating. He must have sounded like an alchy. Glad his son couldn’t see him.

Ten minutes later the 767 lumbered, then thrust down the runway, pressing him against the seat. After a steep climb over the water and Manhattan, the big jet tilted up again on its way to cruising altitude, forcing him to clamp the armrests until his hands ached. As the plane leveled and the ride smoothed, his mood and his grip, relaxed.

***

United Airlines, flight 522 to San Diego passed over the lights of Nashville at six-thirty. With dinner service concluded, most passengers had fallen asleep. Several reading lights poached on the darkness while jet engines hummed sleep-inducing white noise.

Attendants squeezed the crammed beverage cart down the aisle, as one more light clicked off.

Exhausted by unrelenting anxiety, Kane Irving felt the tug of sleep. But fifteen minutes into it his body jerked upright, hands pressing his temples. Oh Jesus.

Startled passengers stirred, flipping on lights. The woman on his left pulled away, eyes fixed on him.

The lady on the right leaned toward him, speaking softly. Are you okay?

Without responding, he hunched forward, then back, slamming against the seat. Eyes clamped shut, he clawed and slapped at his safety belt. Get out. He rocked from side to side.

As the beverage cart passed, the woman in the aisle seat jumped up, arms braced for protection.

The nearest attendant cautioned him. Sir, you’re upsetting the other passengers.

Self-conscious over his outburst, Kane tried to mask the pain, but slumped in his seat with uncontrollable spurts of keening.

A big man, several rows forward rose and faced him. Hey buddy, shut the hell up. Go to the damn head and lock yourself in.

Face dripping sweat, Kane glared, jerked his head toward the rear, then at the cart and flight attendant, now blocking his path.

Sir, please wait for—.

He launched himself toward the aisle, his head and shoulder striking the cart. Open cans, ice, and a full pot of coffee splattered several rows. A girl in 15A screamed for her mother. Shouts erupted as more passengers jumped up from their seats.

He stumbled, fighting off attempts to assist, his voice cracking with rage. You’re NOT going to kill me. He freed himself from the cart and bolted toward the back of the plane.

An unseen man yelled, Stop him!

The increasing noise and clamor startled two more babies into crying jags, their mothers shielding them with their bodies.

An arthritic, white-haired man stuck his foot in the aisle, but Kane charged through it as if it were a dry twig, his wild eyes triggering more screams.

A lone attendant braced herself against the bulkhead. She would not, or could not, move.

He rammed headlong into her, both dropping to the floor. Quick to his feet, he peered down at her as she gasped for breath. All adult voices fell silent for a moment as he slowly turning toward the emergency exit door.

The crumpled, wheezing attendant understood. She struggled to stand, seeming to read his mind. No! Still trying to catch her breath, she crab walked toward him, but he clubbed her with the back of his fist, rolling her onto her back.

With a violent tug on the door’s latch, Kane simultaneously kicked away the restraining bar.

A second attendant ran up with a dozen passengers following her lead, some clambering over seats to reach the insanity that threatened everyone.

The first attendant turned over, reached for him, clawing at his legs, screaming. But he kicked her in the face. Tumbling to her side, she lurched at him once more while the second attendant charged in. Both clutched Kane’s arms.

Kane rammed the door once. YOU CAN’T STOP ME. It ripped away, pulling all three into frozen darkness.

CHAPTER TWO

Night terrors again. Years ago, Brad Vance thought he’d broken away from them, but last night proved one of the worst. He twisted to view the clock on the nightstand, glowing five a.m. Sweaty hair clung to the back of his neck and dampened his 1,200 thread-count Egyptian cotton Armani pillow case. This weakness angered him as he threw aside the covers. Why now?

He sat up, adjusting his boxers. Yesterday had been long and stressful, but certainly not enough to bring this shit back. Thank God he’d managed to juggle the New York flights, getting him back to San Diego by ten. That damn Kane had been wigging out all day. Of course, not without some prodding. Though if he hadn’t left the room and adjusted the energy level on the trident, Kane might have flipped out completely. The scene with the Chinese went perfect, but he sure as hell didn’t want to be with Kane for six hours at 35,000 feet. Wonder what time that tool got home?

Brad saw his career and personal life perched on success rivaling that of his brother's. Of course, if Darren had been thrown into a foster home, if his sweet brother had been brutalized by a stepfather then his wonderful life would have sidetracked as well.

Over thirty years ago, an icy road led to a fatal car wreck in Ohio, leaving Darren 11, and Brad 9, without parents. Separate foster families took them in different directions, geographically and emotionally.

Throughout his teens, Brad fought with the law. Kicked out of three high schools, he landed in the California Youth Authority at sixteen. Released at seventeen, his record sealed, he graduated high school with a 3.5 GPA. He went to San Diego State for one year, and then transferred to Berkeley for a B.A. in Political Science.

One of his friends, Neal Crow, encouraged him to go into the CIA. For three years, Brad fed off the potential intrigue he sought. But his juvenile record kept him out of the highest security clearance. Nothing was sealed from the CIA’s eyes. When reality set in that actual spy thrills were rare and the pay mediocre, he quit.

He enrolled in law school at Berkeley. By age 27, he’d graduated at the top of his class, with seven major firms romancing him. Selecting a large San Diego litigating firm he vaulted to the number one rainmaker in four years. He then opened his own firm and within two years he’d become one of the most highly sought after criminal and personal injury litigators in California.

He threw on his sweats, slipped into sneakers and ran down the 20 floors to the gym on the second level of Harbor Towers.

Returning invigorated at six a.m., he placed his sneakers on a rack in the guest closet, quickening his pace to the kitchen. He grabbed a Berry Veggie Naked Juice from the refrigerator and chugged it. Seemed like forever that TV was filled with infomercials, ads and promoters for one juice concoction or another. Dr. Oz being the latest, but hey, he was right…usually. And the good side of that was women loved the idea of him watching the show, showing them his softer side. He shoved a pinch of gyokuro tea into the basket of his Keurig Platinum gourmet brewing machine and snapped it on, then leaned up against the kitchen counter.

The past year, his life had gotten even better. Darren had lost his wife and couldn’t get over it. That’s a bitch, eh bro? He poured a cup of the steaming tea, and then padded into the bathroom. Two sinks, black granite, he stood at one while shaving. After showering, he dried off, and then swigged the last of the tea, which improved with cooling.

He selected a navy, Brioni pin-striped suit. Dark hair, combed straight back, he adjusted his Armani tie, and then steadied his gaze into the full-length mirror next to the double doors. He changed cuff links one more time. On his way out, he regarded himself in the mirror again before leaving.

***

The flight from D.C. to San Diego got Darren Vance home just after midnight. He wished he’d not had to have Haley stay at Jennifer’s. He really missed her. Getting up in the morning without her was not something he wanted to get used to. The house was so incredibly empty without her. As usual, when he walked out of the front door, his gaze landed on the family portrait, Haley and Alix on either side of him. Alix, forever 33 and Haley, 12 this week. Nope, not going to go there.

He arrived at Jennifer’s house ten minutes early, but Haley was ready.

A five foot tall, curly ash blonde, bounded out, her backpack slung over one shoulder. The little bit of heaven—and a big part of Alix—jumped into the front seat, tossing her bag in back. I missed you, Daddy. After kissing him, she turned on the radio.

Life had given him everything he could ever want. He’d taken a small, struggling company and turned it into a world-renowned biotech organization, all in ten years. At 41, he should be enjoying the recognition and success. His denim-blue eyes blurred. If they hadn’t argued that morning, then he, not Alix, would have picked up Haley at school. First, he’d blamed himself. Then he’d blamed God, since the priest had told him it was His will. But, in his heart he didn’t believe that either. It was a horrible accident…or—

When do I get to go to Washington?

He patted her knee. Soon. Thank God for Haley. She’d coped with her mother’s loss better than he had. Her school grades even went up. Refusing to let her see him give in to grief, he’d tried to keep their lives stable, keeping normal work and gym routines. Several times during the year, she’d repeated her dream and expectation to run CyberQuest when she got older. If not for that, he’d have sold what he’d worked so hard to build. He had come so close to just giving up.

So what’s it like?

What is what like sweetie?

Washington D. C.

Well, lots of strange people. Lots of power and money.

Did you meet the president?

No, but I met his wife, First Lady Eve Mansfield and the vice president.

Paul Nelson, right?

Darren gave her a question mark glance.

Wikipedia.

His gaze turned glowing. I love you.

She said, It said that he lost his wife and children in a car crash, just like mom.

Darren lost his smile.

She seemed to be unaffected. So what did you do there?

We had a small conference with dozens of scientists and some important people from the defense department. I just explained some of the secret stuff we’ve been working on at the company.

YOUR company.

His smile returned.

Didn’t Uncle Brad go with you? Her face seemed to lose enthusiasm with the mention of her uncle. Something about him had always caused her to shift her expression and her posture when he was around.

No, he went to New York. He met with some high ranking officials from China. Jeez, she should be an attorney.

The questions kept coming.

By the time he’d merged into freeway traffic, his face had twisted several times at Haley’s radio-station jumping. He wished he could just keep driving. He needed more time with her. The mitobot projects had consumed way too much of his life. But worse, he’d missed a big portion of hers. At times he even sensed her trying to mother him. It was as if she could read his moods.

As they neared the exit ramp for CyberQuest, he prepared to lip-synch what he knew was coming.

As if on cue, she said, When I get older, I wanna work with you, Daddy. This place is sooo cool.

Prominent in the city, the headquarters impressed everyone, especially Haley. She bragged about it to all her friends.

He’d heard and seen it many times before, as her eyes widened with emphasis: My dad’s company could save the world some day. At times she seemed much taller than five feet. He never doubted she would someday be working side by side with him and eventually run the company.

In growing anticipation, she leaned forward, gripping the armrest as he pulled around to the front of the building and under the porte-cochere. But before the attendant could take the car and before it stopped she started opening the door.

Haley. His scowl melted when she flashed him a what’s-wrong-now-Daddy look. How could he ever refuse her anything?

Jumping out of the car, Haley pranced around the front of the car and hugged him, brushing aside a drooping lock or his straw-colored hair. Darren, five-eleven, could remember a short time ago when she couldn’t reach his face.

Walking to the entrance, blinding morning sunshine reflected off the five-story glass and chrome atrium. Located about a mile from the Pacific Ocean, along Interstate 5, between La Jolla and Del Mar, CyberQuest sprawled over a gently sloping hillside, in numerous, three and six-story structures. The post-modern administration building radiated with bright colors. It was her favorite. Two ostentatious 40-foot tall sculptures flanked the entrance. Some called them art. Haley called them freaky. A South Korean company, Kijang Enterprises, had given them as a gift.

Three corridors spoked off the cavernous lobby, the pattern repeating from mezzanines on all six floors. A bank of four glass elevators formed the hub. Twice, Hollywood had use CyberQuest for a movie set.

Haley, in a buttoned jean dress, skipped and jumped, her ash blond pony tail bobbing. As if suddenly realizing she was way past acting like a second-grader, she skidded to a halt. Composing herself, she tugged and adjusted her dress as she ambled up to the security guard. Remember me?

Of course. How are you, Miss Vance? He cupped a meaty palm over his name badge.

Fine, thank you…Mr. Sobek. She mugged, arms behind her, obviously proud of her memory test.

You’re good. Besides his wide grin, Sobek offered Darren a guest badge for Haley.

Good morning, Joe. I know, second time today. Darren made a conscious effort to know the names of all his six hundred employees.

As they walked away, Haley turned to glimpse the security guard. You know, Mr. Sobek looks sick. He was sweating.

Sweetie, it’s that time of year. Flu’s going around. Probably why he didn’t offer to shake our hands.

Reaching the elevators, Haley punched the call button. Inside the cab, she tried to imitate her dad in as deep a voice as she could manage. Floor six.

Nothing happened.

Floor six, she repeated.

He pulled her to him and kissed the top of her head. Honey, it recognizes voice frequencies, like fingerprints. He faced the device. Floor six.

A synthesized voice replied, Accepted. The door’s closed.

As the glass-walled car rose, Haley pointed to a blond-haired woman looking back at them through her office window. Look. There’s Ginger.

Ginger Wilson, in a blue silk St. John blouse and black slacks, waved and disappeared. One of CyberQuest's most dynamic executives, she was vice president of the Special Projects Division, and at age thirty-three, the youngest in the company to earn that title. In spite of this, she remained affable and approachable. Though attractive, the word beautiful rarely surfaced when someone described her.

As the elevator doors opened, she greeted them, arms wide for Haley. So you’re getting away from this guy for a night, huh? Ginger winked at Darren as she hugged Haley.

Darren returned a smile. Yeah, well, we’re going to take a tour of the place, but I could use your help. I'm going to turn her over to you when we get back.

Ginger screwed up her face. You’re going to stick me with this little pest?

Haley folded her arms in protest.

Well, Ginger said. I guess she’s not so little anymore.

"But I am a pest."

Ginger’s smile widened. Call me when you’re ready. I’ve got to review some contracts with Tara.

***

Ginger Wilson pushed for as much responsibility as Darren would release to her. But one task she did not relish was facilities planning. Real estate sales and leasing issues bored her. A commercial real estate agent, Tara Quinn, oversaw those areas for CyberQuest.

Ginger made an effort to set aside jealousy that occasionally afflicted her, resulting from a prior history between Darren and Tara. After earning his PhD in microbiology, Darren worked for a large biotech company in San Francisco. An investment angel allowed him to create his own start-up, which made rapid progress combining biological and synthetic materials. Finally, he threw in his entire net worth along with new investors, launching CyberQuest. His breakthrough, merging biology and micro processing technologies, became the building blocks for microscopic biological computer processing chips. From these, they built robots driven by a cell’s mitochondria. These microscopic robots, called mitobots, spawned major innovations in laser-weaponry through a Pentagon-backed CyberQuest program, LaserWorx.

Tara helped Darren negotiate his first facility, soon followed by the first expansion. But mitobot use, for the original goal – medical advances – lagged until two years ago. Midway into this expansion Darren found Ginger, but couldn’t pry her away from a competitor until he enlisted Tara’s help. She finally convinced Ginger to make the leap, which molded the two women into best friends.

Through the open door Ginger spotted a woman with brown-highlighted black hair sitting in her office. Tara. She could pass for Beyonce’s twin. About time.

Tara stood to greet her. Sorry, but your staff told me to just go in.

Oh please, you don’t need permission. Why do you do that? Seems like we get into this every time you come over here.

Tara said, Just my upbringing, I guess. Is Haley here?

With her dad for now. She pulled up a chair next to Tara.