Calypso Directive (9 page)

The force of the collision spun him halfway around. Unable to catch his balance, he tumbled to the ground and felt another body come down on top of him. When he opened his eyes a large embroidered “B” filled his field of vision. A man sporting a navy blue Red Sox cap and wearing a backpack was splayed out on top of him, flailing about like an overturned beetle trying to right itself.

“I'm
so
sorry, bro,” the man said as he untangled himself from AJ. “I totally wasn't looking where I was going.”

“Don't worry about it,” he said through clenched teeth. His left side ached where he had fallen; he was surprised he hadn't cracked a rib. Before getting up, he glanced down the sidewalk in an attempt to catch one more glimpse of the raven-haired beauty in the white blouse. He spotted her just as she rounded a bend and was sure he glimpsed a smile. She had seen it all. No doubt this kind of thing happened to her all the time.

“Did you see the pair on that chick?” the guy in the Red Sox cap said, looking in the same direction as AJ.

AJ grunted as he got up. “See them? How could I miss them? They're the reason I ran into you.”

“They don't call them knockers for nothing, I guess,” laughed the man in the Red Sox cap.

AJ gathered himself and looked at his watch, 08:04 AM.

“Shit! I'm late.”

He took off running north along the lagoon, ignoring the curious glances as he dodged left and right between morning commuters. As he approached the “Make Way for Ducklings” sculpture, he scanned the area for Briggs, but he didn't recognize anyone resembling the recruiter he'd met the day before. He sighed in relief and shuffled over to the bronze casting of a mother duck with her ducklings in trail—frozen forever in mid-waddle.

“You're late,” a voice called from behind him.

He spun around. Jack Briggs was sitting on a park bench directly behind him. Briggs had a
Boston Globe
newspaper folded neatly in his lap and a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee in his hand. AJ was taken aback; he didn't recall seeing anyone sitting on the park bench a minute ago.

“You're right, I am. I'm sorry about that, Mr. Briggs.”

Briggs snorted as he reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded stack of documents. “Take a quick look at this CA. Throw your John Hancock on the dotted line when you're done.”

“A confidentiality agreement? For what?”

Briggs stared at him. “For confidentiality.”

He stared back. The man standing in front of him looked like the same Briggs he had met in Tim's office, but his persona had hardened. AJ grabbed the papers, and leafed through the legalese. Halfway through the stack of pages, he sighed, flipped to the last page, and dutifully signed his name.

“Mr. Briggs, I have some questions about—”

Briggs raised his hand, stopping AJ mid-sentence, just as he had done the day before in Tim's office. He took the signed papers, stuffed them back inside the flap of his coat, and then shifted his gaze to the bronze ducks.

“Appropriate, wouldn't you say, Archer?” Briggs said. Then, with a smile only in his eyes, he added, “There will be time for questions later. Follow me, son.”

•     •     •

AFTER A TEN-MINUTE
walk, they arrived at the steps of a renovated seven-story brownstone on the east side of Commonwealth Avenue. Embossed on the glass-paned entry door was a logo:

“This is where you work: The Nicolora Foundation?” AJ asked, remembering the enigmatic bee on Briggs' business card.

Briggs regarded him, but didn't answer.

“What is the significance of the bee?”

“Metaphor, Archer, metaphor.”

“So I'm to be the newest drone in your collective hive?”

“A clumsy, shallow interpretation,” Briggs said, shaking his head. “Certainly not what Mr. Nicolora had in mind when he chose the bee as the symbol of this organization. The ancients revered bees, not only because of their industriousness and loyal diligence, but also because bees are agents of fertility, renewing the cycle of life in the flora community around them.”

AJ nodded, making a connection in his mind. “Information is our pollen?”

The corners of Briggs mouth turned up ever so slightly. “And the wisdom distilled from our efforts is our honey.”

Briggs pressed a small black button next to the door. A bell rang, and AJ heard the heavy click of a magnetic lock disengaging. They walked into an elegant foyer that smelled of fresh-cut flowers and furniture polish. A brass plaque next to a grand wooden staircase read: Reception—2nd Floor.

He headed toward the stairs.

“Not so fast,” Briggs called after him. “That's where the tour
ends
.”

AJ nodded, trying to hide his confusion.

Briggs walked to the back of the tiny foyer and disappeared behind a corner. AJ chased after him. He found the recruiter standing inside a polished stainless steel elevator, holding the door open, and tapping his foot.

He stepped in without a word, and the door slid shut. He spied something flat and silver in Briggs' hand, but it was back in the recruiter's pocket before he could identify what it was. The elevator began to move, accelerating downward with the smoothness of a well-tuned German automobile.

“Some elevator,” AJ said.

“It's German.”

The doors slid open just as he was beginning to notice what a
strange
elevator it was. No railing. No keypad. No floor indicator. No emergency call button.

“First stop, Level Zero,” Briggs said.

They stepped out of the elevator into a sea of office cubicles. Briggs kept a half-pace ahead of AJ as they walked, steering his duckling among the cramped walkways. AJ took in the scene, trying not to gawk. He had seemingly stepped out of the lobby of a nineteenth-century vintage brownstone and into the middle of a humming research facility.

Technicians greeted Briggs and nodded at AJ as they passed. They soon arrived at a corner office. The nameplate next to the open door said:
A. St. Jean
. Briggs knocked on the door frame, and a woman looked up from the computer where she was typing. She smiled.

“Jack!”

“Abbey.”

“Nice to see you still find time to visit The Pit.”

Briggs turned to AJ.

“AJ Archer, meet Abbey St. Jean, our Chief Engineer.”

Her mousy brown hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, and two perfect dimples framed her easy smile. AJ was hypnotized at once by her huge brown eyes, and although he offered his hand to her, the words of salutation in his mind never manifested from his lips.

“Nice to meet you too,” she said, chuckling. “Everyone down here calls me Jeanie; they know I
hate
it, of course. You can me Eng, or Gadget Girl, or GG, or Queen of the Nerds, or Abbey, or even St. Jean. I have so many handles that it's hard to keep up with the flavor of the day.”

“I think I'll go with Gadget Girl,” he said.

Briggs rolled his eyes.

“So, what do you do down here?”

She smiled. “What we
do
down here is kick the collective butts of Apple, IBM, and DARPA eight days a week. You know the IT race you hear about in the media all the time? We're winning it.” She shrugged, and then added, “Not that anyone will ever know.”

AJ raised an eyebrow.

“Is his welcome kit ready?” Briggs interjected.

“I have it right here.”

“And his phone?”

“Of course. What kind of ship do you think I run down here?”

“A tight one.”

“That's right, and don't you forget it, Briggs.” She winked at AJ. “Alrighty, then. First stop: the dentist. Follow me.”

He followed her to a small room outfitted like a typical dentist's office. In the middle of the room was a single reclining dentist chair with blue vinyl upholstery.

“Root canal?” he joked, nervously.

“Why? Do you need one?” she asked. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay then, no root canal. Have a seat and open up,” she said, gesturing to the chair. “This will only take a sec.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked as she shoved him into the seat.

“My technician, Jessica, is going to glue this on the back of your left upper incisor,” Abbey said, showing him a tiny white disc, the diameter of a pencil eraser and the thickness of a dime.

“Wait a minute—what is that?”

Jessica the technician said, “Open up . . . just a little cleaning to prep the surface . . . a little air to dry the enamel . . . okay, now we place the device. You're doing great . . . blue light to cure the adhesive . . . and you're done. Easy as pie.”

“Say something,” Abbey said to him.

“What did you just do to my tooth?” he asked in between exploratory swipes with his tongue.

Abbey looked down at the tablet computer in her palm. “Good signal strength. Good clarity. Voice ID set. Perfect.”

“Did you just install a microphone in my mouth?”

“No. I just installed a transceiver on your tooth.”

“You mean you're going to listen to everything I say?”

“No, no. Don't be silly. We're going to transmit everything you say.”

“
Everything
?”

“When you're on the job, yeah, pretty much everything. This device enables you to have hands-free communication with any company resource at any time. It transmits voice data to your phone. The phone either archives the data, or retransmits the signal if you are making a call. The phone has its own built-in microphone for redundancy and to record ambient sound that the tooth transceiver misses. This feature enables you to make digital recordings of all your meetings, calls, and field operations.”

“And what about my private life? Is that on candid camera too?”

Abbey laughed. “Don't worry, AJ, your personal life is not of any interest to us. If it bothers you, then when you're off work, turn off your phone. We'll give you a pager, and you'll be on call . . . like a doctor,” Abbey said. “But I think that after a couple of weeks, you'll wonder how you ever got along without our T3 system.”

“What's next, James Bond camera glasses?” he quipped, trying to defuse his nerves.

“The boy's quick, Jack,” Abbey said, turning to Briggs.

As they walked through Level Zero, AJ scrutinized the work around him. A myriad of projects were underway in disciplines as diverse as chemistry, material science, electronics, and robotics. He paused, mouth agape at a clear glass cylinder measuring ten feet tall and four feet in diameter. Inside were bees, except they were not like any bees he had ever seen before.

“They're my newest prototype. Do you like them?” Abbey placed a hand on the enclosure. “Go ahead, step closer. Get a better look.”

“How do you prototype . . .” he stopped mid-sentence. The bees inside the glass were not actual bees, but rather robotic impersonations of bees. “Those aren't bees!”

“They're not
real
bees, but they don't know that. They fly like bees, navigate like bees, work collectively like bees. They even sting like bees.”

“What is it with you people and bees? Why are you making robot bees?”

“The applications are practically infinite. They're perfect little infiltrators. I can use them to collect reconnaissance—put eyes and ears in places where people can't go. Or, I can program them to deliver drug injections to uncooperative targets. And with twelve of these little guys working together, I have a small, infinitely configurable, mobile antennae.”

“Unbelievable. Tim would love this! Tim wouldn't believe this,” he mumbled. “Any other robot bugs on the loose around here I should know about?”

“Yeah, spiders. They've been in the field for twelve months. Maybe you'll get to see them in action,” Abbey said.

Briggs spoke up. “Okay, show-and-tell time is over. Time to get moving. Say goodbye to the Queen of the Nerds. We've got work to do. Let's go see your lab.”

“Nice to meet you, Abbey,” AJ said as he turned to follow Briggs to the elevator.

“Likewise,” Abbey replied with a grin. “Gadget Girl, out.”

•     •     •

“
HERE WE ARE
,” Briggs said, motioning to a dark room with a partially closed door. A shining new nameplate was attached to the wall next to the doorframe and etched into its surface were the words: AJ Archer—RS:Bio.

AJ shot Briggs a quizzical look. “I was expecting to be working in a lab.”

“That's right. You will be.
This
is your lab,” Briggs said. “Go on. Take a look inside.”

AJ hesitantly pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold. The lights in the room brightened automatically upon entry. The windowless workspace was semicircular, with an expansive brushed stainless steel desk that graced the full curvature of the facing wall. Three black leather task chairs were parked underneath the overhang of the desk. Rich, brightly colored computer images suddenly illuminated on the wall panels in front of him. The images appeared as if they were projected, but he saw no projector in the room. Upon closer inspection, he found no LCD monitors, no plasma screens, no seams or bezels—the light simply emanated from the wall, in tidy 16:9 aspect ratio windows.