Convergence Point

 

DEDICATION

A toast to the survivors. It didn't kill you, and you are stronger.

 

CONTENTS

 

A BRIEF TIMELINE OF MODERN HISTORY
(ITERATION 2)

2029—­First human clone born

2037—­Mexico, Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, Belize, and Guatemala sign the Central American Charter to form the Central American Territories

2043—­The World Plague begins in China; an estimated 3 million ­people die in the next six years

2044—­First law requiring all clones to have a genetic marker passed in Canada

2045—­First clone with genetic marker created in the United States of America under the direction of an international team

2050—­Canada signs the United Charter with the Central American Territories to form the United Territories

2053—­The United dollar becomes the standard currency in North America

2057—­European Recession cripples the world economy

2064—­The United States of America votes to sign the United Charter

2065—­The Commonwealth of North America is formed, and the first national elections are held in preparation for the writing of the North American Constitution

2069—­Dr. Abdul Emir creates the first working time machine, a completion of his Grand Theory of Movement Through Time.

 

CHAPTER 1

If all life is sacred, then Mr. Gant is a blasphemer of the highest order. He is everything humanity strives not to be.

~
Detective Samantha Rose at the trial of Nialls Gant I3–2071

Monday September 26, 2072

Brevard County, Florida

Federated States of Mexico

Iteration 3

G
racie, a bearded Latino man with a shiny bald head, punched Nialls Gant's arm. “Wanna a tat, brah? I got more ink.”

Nialls kept his focus on the guards in the prison tower as they rotated.

“You hear me, brah?” The fetid odor of onions and poor hygiene entrapped him.

Blinking once, Nialls turned to the other inmate. “No.”

“Come on, Gant. We could do a ­couple of teardrops on you. Maybe a gun on your back,” Gracie went on, oblivious to Nialls's focus.

“Prison tattoos make it easier for ­people to identify you when you're out of prison,” Nialls said. “It's hard to run a con when you have your criminal record embedded in your dermis.”

“Brah?” Gracie sat next to him, ignoring the burning metal of the prison-­yard table. “You're serving consecutive life sentences. At this point, you ain't got to worry about what marks think. You need to be thinking what we think of a white boy in our yard.”

“Don't trouble yourself with my integration,” Nialls said. “I won't be imposing on your hospitality much longer.”

Seven.
There, the guards turned in to talk to each other and took their eyes off their prisoners. Seven rotations around the turret, then they had a three-­minute conference. Long enough to move something forbidden across the open space. Long enough for a person to vanish into the camera's blind spot that the warden failed to fix after the last in-­house murder. Inefficiency was the hallmark of the city's prison system. The fact that anyone thought he was going to linger here for more than a few months was insulting. Surely, someone knew he had better taste than that.

A flash of red caught his eye beyond the acres of barbed-­wire fences.

The car paused for a moment, only long enough for the window to roll down as the occupant scanned the yard. Then it pulled away, tires squealing. It was gratifying to know that Detective Rose hadn't abandoned him entirely. The red-­lipped harridan who'd terrorized him throughout his trial had wanted the death penalty. He hoped she stayed up at night worrying about what he was planning in his ten-­by-­ten cell.

He hoped it gave her nightmares.

 

CHAPTER 2

Peace is an illusion.

~
excerpt from
The Heart of Fear
by Liedjie Slaan

Monday March 17, 2070

Florida District 8

Commonwealth of North America

Iteration 2

S
am watched the EMT roll away the final lab-­blast survivors. In her hand was the name tag of the last person—­Henry Troom wasn't walking out of this one. The police had pulled his plastic ID card out of the wall.

“Agent Rose?” The lab facilitator approached her cautiously. “I'm so sorry, but why aren't they taking Troom out yet?”

“Because it's a crime scene, Dr. Morr, and because I can't allow anyone in there who doesn't have the proper security clearance. Someone will be here shortly,” she lied. Someone would be here, but it probably wouldn't be soon, and it would probably cost her another lunch with Feo Petrilli from District 6.

Drenmann Labs was a major source of contention between Sam and her director at HQ in Orlando. Drenmann was a secure facility attached to NASA and sometimes used by the naval post and Patrick Air Force Base. All of which fell under the heading of Too-­Classified-­To-­Think-­About-­In-­Public and within the boundaries of Florida District 6.

Senior Agent Feo Petrilli had a complete staff with ten full-­time agents and two full-­time medical examiners with class-­four or higher security clearance.

Senior Agent Samantha Rose of District 8 had one junior agent, an agreement with the local PD and coroner's office, and a bunch of retirees stretched along the space coast like beached albino whales. The crime rate here didn't justify keeping a larger CBI force. Drenmann Lab was the exception.

She stepped into a small conference room and locked the door behind her before calling the main office.

“Junior Agent Dan Edwin speaking, how may I direct your call, sir or ma'am?”

“Hi, Edwin, it's Rose.”

“Agent Rose!” Her junior agent's voice cracked. He was an excitable puppy of a person. Sometimes it seemed like a miracle that he didn't jump up and lick her face.

“Did you get in touch with Petrilli yet? I need that coroner.”

“Petrilli has one out on vacation, and the other is elbow deep in something. I didn't get details.”

“That's not what I want to hear, Edwin. What I need to hear you say is, ‘Yes, ma'am. Your medical examiner will be there in twenty minutes.' Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, ma'am. I called around, and there was a conference in Orlando. One of the doctors has clearance, so I had him pulled off the plane. He should arrive shortly.”

“Orlando is over an hour away,” Sam said with a sigh. “Good try though—­it's better than nothing.” Hopefully, Dr. Morr would accept her excuses. Of course, that would leave her with nothing to do for an hour but kick cleaning bots away from the door and wonder if she could get a contact high from the smell of pine-­scented cleaning fluids.

“Not to worry, ma'am. The air force had a set of fighters doing emergency landing drills with the tower director there, so I commissioned one of them to bring the coroner to the local airfield, and there's a car waiting. They should be touching down now, ma'am.”

Saints and angels.
She could not have heard that right. “You scrambled a fighter jet?”

“You said it was urgent, ma'am.”

Sam rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Tell me, Edwin, have you ever heard the term overkill?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Outside, Sam heard the whine of police sirens coming closer. “What kind of car did you have waiting for our kidnapped coroner?” She had a sinking suspicion that she already knew.

“I called the PD, ma'am. You did say fast.”

“Thank you, Edwin. Remind me to note your diligence and willingness to think outside the box in your next performance review.” Sam hung up the phone and shook her head
. Excitable little puppy.
If he hadn't been a six-­foot-­ten Viking with curly red hair and an eager smile, she might have broken down and used his nickname out loud.

Sam walked back into the main lobby as the medical examiner walked in with police escort, the broken lighting throwing shadows across their faces. Mentally she prepared herself for an angry tirade for interrupting their travel plans.

But he—­and it was most definitely a
he
—­wasn't what she expected. Six something, dark hair, well built, wraparound sunglasses, and wearing a thick black trench coat over black slacks and a black shirt. Wherever he was flying to, it wasn't in the South, where early-­spring temperatures were already making it shorts-­and-­skimpy-­dress weather.

“Dr. Morr,” Sam called, motioning for the facilitator to come over. “Our ME has arrived. Do you want me to go back with him, or would you like to be there?”

“Um.” Dr. Morr twisted a handkerchief in his hands. “Is it likely to be, uh, organic?”

“Most deaths are. It would help us immensely if you could look over the scene and comment on the position of equipment, maybe tell us if anything is missing.” The doctor paled. “If you'd like to wait until after the body is moved, however, that's fine.”

Dr. Morr nodded.

“Agent Rose.” The voice made her smile in the shadow of death. Low and husky, it spoke of devotion and safety. “You are the only woman I know who would scramble a fighter jet just to see me.”

She'd missed his voice. “What can I say, Agent MacKenzie; I wanted to show you my corpse.” She turned toward him, trying to keep her expression neutral. They hadn't kept in touch since August. An occasional message here and there. He'd sent her a birthday card. Other than that, they'd moved on.

No: He'd
moved on.

For her there wasn't anything to move to, and she wasn't going to drag him further into the mire that was her life. Especially since there was nothing left of the faded, nearly suicidal man she'd met last May. He deserved to be happy.

He took off his sunglasses and smiled. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of being abducted from Orlando and my flight back to Chicago?”

Just like that, she was back in a sultry summer evening on a creaking front porch of an elderly house in Alabama. One smile, and she was home. “Come on back and meet my headache.”

“What's the need to know?” Mac asked as he followed her back to the disaster scene.

“Drenmann Labs is the local think tank. It's supported by government grants, funding from the county, and public sales of some of the inventions they come up with here. You know Intuitive Design 3? The photo software?”

“Yeah, it's like the autopsy software we use.”

Sam nodded as she lifted yellow police tape and ducked under. “That was invented here. All the scientists here spend some time on the main project, and then they have what they call a Tinker Lab. The scientists can go in there and play. Anything they invent with lab materials or help can be sold if they agree to split the profit with the government, the lab, and the county.”

“Seems like a nice gig. What's the main grant for?”

“Disease control. Drenmann tracks malaria outbreaks for mutations that could lead to another World Plague and has a contract with the CDC. That happens on the far side of the building. It's under lockdown until this gets sorted out.” She hesitated outside the lab. The
this
in this case was messier than most crime scenes, and when they'd first met, Mac could barely handle autopsies without triggering his PTSD. He
looked
fine—­he looked better than fine, she had to admit—­but she was worried. “There was a fire and possibly an explosion. Several ­people were injured. One is dead. There is blood—­a lot of it. Can you handle that?”

A flash of worry passed through Mac's eyes. For just a moment, he was the same unsure, broken man she'd first met. But it passed, and he took a deep breath. “Wading through fire-­suppression foam isn't my favorite activity in the world. What's the alternative if I don't go in there?”

“I find someone on the police forensics team, swear them in, and bring them back tomorrow. Meanwhile, the body rots, I lose evidence, and whoever did this gets away with murder.”

He raised an eyebrow. “There's no chance this was a lab accident?”

“There's an excellent chance this was just a lab accident. I'm
hoping
it was a lab accident. I'm just too paranoid to believe it was a lab accident.”

“Any particular reason you're paranoid?”

“Two reasons. First, this is the Tinker Lab. According to Dr. Morr, this is the brain box of the think tank. Lots of computers and simulations, zero chemicals or experiments in the room. It's supposed to be a nice place to write up your paperwork, eat lunch, and play with the graphics suite on the computer.”

Mac's forehead creased in contemplation. “I could see a few ways to make a room blow up with just food and computers, especially if they have windows.”

“I'm sure you could,” Sam said dryly. Mac was full of surprises.

“Does the room have windows?”

“Yes. Sterile work is done on the other side of the building.”

“That's two more ways. What was your second reason for paranoia?”

“Do you remember Dr. Henry Troom?” Sam asked as she snapped on her gloves.

Mac frowned. “It sounds familiar.”

“Last time we saw him, he was working at Nova Labs as Dr. Emir's intern. He graduated with his doctorate in physics in December and was lucky enough to win a spot here at Drenmann. This is a place that makes careers. Not many young doctors get a chance like this.”

“Fascinating. And . . .”

“He's the only fatality.”

“Do you think someone killed him out of jealousy?” Mac took off his trench coat and tossed it into a heap next to the door.

“I'm not ruling anything out. The lab's never had threats or protestors. The locals are pretty proud of this place, but I won't even guess at hypotheticals until I see some data.” She stopped outside the lab and knelt by her crime scene kit. “Gloves. Mask. Shoe covers. Let me know if this is too much.”

Six years ago, Mac had been a US Army Ranger, before the United States signed the United Charter to form the Commonwealth of North America with Canada, Mexico, and most of Central America. During the last, tumultuous days of the USA, Mac had gone on an extraction mission to the Middle East and been the only survivor of an ambush. When Sam had met Mac, he'd been a shadow of his former self—­a shell of a man stitched together by antidepressants, sleeping pills, and a withered self-­esteem. Post-­traumatic stress was the diagnosis. Sam always felt there'd been more than a little survivor's guilt, too.

The events of last May couldn't have helped that.

“I'll let you know if I need to leave,” Mac said.

Sam pulled a black, metal tube from the bag and twisted the cap off. A recorder bot skittered out onto her hand.

Mac eyed her mechanical assistant dubiously. “Shouldn't the lab be providing the scene readouts?”

“Yes. Do I trust them? No. This little gizmo will give me air samples, scans of the room, video of the initial investigation, and photos. By the way”—­she grinned—­“you're on the record.”

“I'm excited.” The sarcasm was thick enough to float a boat.

Sam pushed the door open and let the bot run forward. Smoke and the smell of charred flesh competed with the smell of fire-­retardant foam to choke her. Lifting her mask across her nose, she walked across the lab and—­waiting a few moments for the bot to test the air—­opened the windows.

After a few minutes with the fans on and the slight breeze, the lab air was clean enough to breathe. The Tinker Lab was a maze of tectum-­and-­grass-­cloth partial dividers. Desks nearest the door were untouched except for the mounds of cakey white substance covering them.

Mac poked a crusty white mound on one desk. “The foam dries faster than I thought it would.”

“It's better for the tech than sprinklers with water.

“Yeah . . . but only if it doesn't soak the tech.” Water splashed under his foot. “What's this from?”

Sam held up a partially melted water bottle, then put it back as she'd found it. Looking straight back from the water bottle, she could see a clear line to a blackened workspace. “That's our target.”

Mac stepped over the water carefully. “That bottle is melted, but the one on this desk is fine?” He poked at the bottle. It rocked under his touch. “What's the variable here?”

“Direct line of sight?” Sam guessed.

“Fire isn't usually that focused.”

She looked at the melted bottle again. “A laser ­accident?”

“Laser falls over, melts the plastic, ignites paper or something similar, and starts the fire?”

“Possibly.” That wouldn't explain Henry Troom's ID badge buried two inches into the wall outside, but it was a start. Setting aside her own emotions, she moved inward. Explosions hadn't always bothered her, but ever since seeing her body bruised and broken by one, she'd become leery.

Dried foam covered charred work material. A burned chair was stuck halfway through a divider. Desks and wastebaskets were overturned. A keyboard hung over the side of a desk, while a melted speaker still tried to play a cheerful tune from the radio.

She looked back at MacKenzie. “Tell me if you need to step out,” she said once more

His mouth was set in a grim line, but he shook his head. “I'm good. Let's see Troom.”

Sam stepped into the workspace, cataloging the placement of everything in her mind. “Whatever he was working on, it's ashes now.” The desire to kick the offending ash was strong.

Very professional, she thought.