Gifted (2 page)

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“GENTLEMEN…
I cannot believe you’re serious.”

Doctor Kavita Rao was sitting in a conference room, staring at an impassive array of bean counters seated across from her. She wanted to lunge across the round mahogany table, grab the nearest man by his pressed, starched shirt, and give him a good shaking. Rao prided herself on her professional demeanor, however, so that was never really an option, no matter how much pleasure she would have taken in it.

She was a slender woman, her dark skin, delicate features and red Bindi mark on her forehead conveying her Indian origins. Her black hair was tied back, adding to her all-business look, and she peered over the tops of her rectangular spectacles in the way she typically did when she was incredulous about something.

“I’m afraid, Doctor Rao, that we have no choice,” said one of the bean counters. It didn’t matter to her which one it was; they were all the same as far as she was concerned. “This was not an easy decision to make…”

“This should not be
your
decision to make at all.” Her lips were
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thinned practically to invisibility. “None of you are scientists.”

“Quite true,” said another bean counter. “And that is precisely why Benetech depends upon us.”

“I’m not sure I follow, Mister…?”

“Bean,” he said.

She blinked and the edges of her mouth nearly twitched, betraying amusement. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Why?” He stared at her in puzzlement. “Is there a problem?”

Immediately, she got herself back under control. “Yes, there’s a problem,” she said curtly. “You’re talking about gutting my department.”

“We’re talking about reapportioning staff and trimming back unnecessary expenditure—”

“Excuse me, Mister Bean, but I prefer to use one word rather than fifty. You can rattle on as long as you wish, but ‘gutting’ seems the succinct way to describe what you’re proposing.”

“Fine,” said Mr. Bean with a shrug. “You can use whatever terminology you wish…”

“Thanks
ever
so…”

“But the bottom line is that the board has asked for our recommendations as to what departments could be scaled back and, unfortunately, the research in which you’ve been engaging seems…what’s the best word—?”

“Limited?” suggested one of the other accountants.

“Yes, exactly, limited,” said Mr. Bean, his head bobbing. “That’s a good word.”

“No, it’s a wrong word. There is nothing limited about our research…”

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“Yes, there is,” said Mr. Bean firmly. “First of all, it caters to the needs of a very small percentage of the population. Relatively speaking, a minuscule portion…”

“Nonsense,” she said brusquely. “There are other genetic conditions, deformities, that Benetech is researching, that are far rarer—not to mention less potentially destructive—than what I’ve been investigating.”

“Yes, but you’ve been investigating it for years, and apparently you’re no closer to a solution than you were when you started.” He sounded sympathetic rather than harsh, but the words still hit like body blows. “Am I correct?”

“These things take time.”

“I’m sure they do, but that doesn’t answer the question. Am I correct?”

She tapped a finger on the table, a nervous habit that she was unable to quit no matter how hard she tried. It grated on her to admit it, but she had to: “That would be a fair assessment.”

“Well…there you have it,” said Mr. Bean. He had a thick folder open in front of him and when he closed it, it was like the gates of hell slamming shut. “Understand that we are informing you of our recommendation purely as a courtesy—”

“What are you not saying?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing.

Mr. Bean looked politely confused. “I’m not sure I—”

“There’s something else. Something you’re not telling me. I’m very good at reading body language, Mr. Bean, and there’s something going on that you’re not being candid about.”

He exchanged glances with the others of his ilk at the table, and then he cleared his throat and said, “The, uh…the simple fact, Doctor Rao, is that mutants aren’t what one might call sexy.”

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She stared at him as if he’d suddenly started speaking in tongues. “I’m sorry? Not…sexy? Have you
seen
some of their outfits?”

Mr. Bean and the others started to laugh until they saw that she wasn’t, at which point they immediately fell silent.

“What I mean to say is that mutantcy isn’t like, say, sickle-cell or Tay-Sachs or Parkinson’s. It doesn’t have someone like Michael J. Fox who everybody adores going around filming commercials or testifying to Congress about how funds are needed for research. People are, in fact, terrified of mutants. Even the so called,”—he held up finger quotes—“‘good mutants’ are objects of fear, because you never know when they’re going to turn evil or destroy property fighting the mutants that supposedly are worse than they are. You think the average citizen cares about who’s good and who’s evil in one of these huge fights? They don’t. To them, it’s an extended bar brawl that’s spilled out into their front yards and demolished their new Ford Fusions.”

“You’re telling me,” she said slowly, “that despite the fact that people are suffering—both mutants and average citizens. Benetech won’t support research into mutants because they can’t use it for
fundraising?
”

“Sad to say, yes. That’s exactly right. Especially when it’s combined with the lack of progress. It’s not like muscular dystrophy where telethons can be held for decades, and people understand the fact that the condition is still around. Being a mutant is simply a different proposition from other genetic research. And that’s the truth.”

“Really.” She stood up, knowing there was no point in continuing the discussion. That indeed there hadn’t actually been a discussion. The men automatically rose when she did. Then she ticked off on her fingers, one at a time: “Muscular dystrophy. Cystic fibrosis. Hemophilia.
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Tay-Sachs. Sickle-cell. Do you know what all of those are?”

“Diseases?” said Mr. Bean, looking puzzled.

“Mutations. Every single one. Point mutations, to be specific. And people treat those sufferers with simple human compassion. If we’d spent all this time trying to help mutants instead of running from them or attacking them, then maybe—just maybe—the research would be further along.”

“Well,” and he shrugged, “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

“No,” she said icily. “We won’t.”

She walked out without another word.

RAO
strode down the hallway, the edges of the lab coat, worn over her sari, swirling around her legs. Her fists were clenched tightly and her posture was ramrod straight.

Fools. Blind fools. They don’t understand. None of them understand
.

She wondered how much of her department was going to be left when she returned to it. Would her office even be there? Maybe they were just planning to move her desk into the cafeteria. She could continue to do her work as long as she was willing to bus tables.

Then, as she walked past one lab that had been emptied during the last round of budget cuts, she heard a deep, rough voice call to her from within. “Doctor Rao,” it said.

She turned and looked. The main light wasn’t on, but the glow from a single overhead fixture provided some illumination. Rao stepped to the threshold and looked inside.

There was a table in the middle of the room with various papers
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and file folders on it, arranged in what appeared to be a rather haphazard fashion. Even from this distance, though, she could discern that the materials involved genetic research.

Otherwise the room was filled with shadows. She thought she could make out someone at the far end. Someone big, built like a linebacker. Beyond his general shape, though, she couldn’t see any details.

“Come in, please, Doctor Rao,” said the voice. It was deep, sonorous, but otherwise didn’t sound particularly threatening. “Close the door behind you.”

She automatically reached over and flipped the main light switch. It clicked impotently.

Well
, this
is coming across like a bad horror movie
.

“As an alternative proposal,” she said, still not stepping inside, “how about I call security?”

“By the time they arrive, I’ll be gone,” said the voice. “Along with all that tasty research on the table—which, I have reason to believe, will be of great interest to you.”

On a day that was already spectacularly bad, she wondered pragmatically if it could really get any worse. So what if this was some insane person trying to tempt her into danger by putting out research, like cheese intended to attract a mouse, so he could snap some sort of trap down on her?
Even insane people deserve a little consideration
, she thought with bleak humor.

Besides, what she could make out on the table was intriguing.

She stepped in and shut the door behind her.

“Thank you,” he said. The shadowy form gestured toward the materials. “Look it over. Take your time. I’ll wait.”

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Slowly she strode to the table and stared down. She touched nothing. She simply looked at the research, all laid out before her.

“As you see,” said the voice, “it focuses on a mutual interest of ours: mutants. What causes them. And what can stop them. The fact is—and know that I will always be honest with you—I despise mutants. I think them destructive in every sense of the word—and an incredible danger to not only this world, but also to others. You, I believe, have a more…generous…point of view. It doesn’t matter, because our goal is the same. Namely, to render them no longer a threat to anyone. Whether this extends from altruism or self-defense is really beside the point. Our motivations, however dissimilar they might be, intersect when it comes to the intended goal.”

Rao was barely listening. Her eyes were widening with every moment as she realized what lay in front of her. Copious amounts of information, study, and data that built upon what she had done thus far and took it to the next level.

It was all right there. At last, there was hope…

“This is…it’s unbelievable. I can scarcely…” Then she stopped, and a voice within warned her not to get too excited. There had to be a catch. There had to be…

“Strings,” she said.

The man in the shadows sounded puzzled. “Pardon?”

“What are the strings? There are always strings attached. What sort of Faustian bargain are we talking about here? What is this going to cost me?”

“Cost?” He seemed offended at the notion. “No cost. Consider it a gift. A small boost the rest of the way to a goal you would have certainly
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reached on your own. Surely you see that you were very close, Doctor Rao. Your work was brilliant.”

She looked back down at the research. She still couldn’t help but be suspicious. “My work is what it is. And I appreciate the flattery. But frankly…Henry McCoy is the man you should be talking to. And that’s not an easy thing for me to admit. There are aspects here I have to struggle to understand that he would just intuitively grasp since he’s…”

“A mutant?”

“Smarter…is what I was going to say,” she admitted wryly. “For all my expertise, he still exceeds me in this area. In fact, I wonder why you didn’t go directly to him. He is higher profile than I am when it comes to this particular area of study.”

“Perhaps. However, I don’t believe Doctor McCoy would be objective about
my
…objective. Given his condition. He seems mostly preoccupied with fully understanding the mechanics of the mutant gene. Laudable, certainly, but that’s a far cry from wanting to
do
something about it.”

“And it’s that ‘something’ that concerns me,” said Rao. “Understand this: If I take advantage of this work…if I take it to its logical conclusion—no one is to be hurt.”

“Are these
your
strings, then?” He didn’t sound annoyed; indeed, he came across as slightly amused.

She nodded. “Whatever your feelings about mutants, I will not be a party to murder.”

“Why, Doctor,” he said chidingly, “I have just this day done the opposite. I have resuscitated a mutant your Earth-based science thought deceased.”

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“
What?
”

A slight rise and fall of his shoulders, as if this pronouncement were a casual accomplishment that he performed every day. “I understand your mistrust. In point of fact, I respect it. But there are millions of lives at stake and my only interest is in saving them. I don’t believe you can turn your back on that opportunity.”

She knew that he was right. She knew she couldn’t, in fact, turn away from it. But that didn’t mean she had to go into it blind, either. Boldly she came around the table and stepped right up to him. “Come into the light,” she said. “I’m tired of this cloak-and-dagger nonsense.”

“As you wish,” he said, and did so.

She gasped as the light fell upon him. It took her long seconds to fully process who and what she was looking at.

Finally she found words:

“Is this where you say, ‘Take me to your leaders?’”