Of One Mind

 
 

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Copyright © 2010 by Shane Tourtellotte

First published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, March 2010

I

The truck slowed to a stop. Sign or light, it didn't matter. Lucinda crept to the back gate and peered out. She didn't see any pedestrians or other vehicles. This was her chance.

She clambered out of the truck bed and onto the road. With only a fast precautionary glance for side traffic, she crouched down and half-ran, half-crawled to the roadside ditch. She kept down until the truck drove away, peeked, then hunkered back down as a few cars passed.

Lucinda climbed out of the ditch, trying to brush mud spots off her legs. She looked back at the compound, a couple thousand feet down the road. There was no obvious activity, no sign of alert or of a search party forming. She was lucky things were still in such flux there, security still not locked back down.

She found herself at a four-way intersection. The compound was south; the truck had driven off north. The country looked empty west, while east showed habitation, the outskirts of the large town a couple miles off.

It's easier to hide in a multitude, Lucinda told herself, and started walking east in the gathering twilight.

A car came driving toward her. She felt exposed before its driver. Her clothes were, if anything, a little too good for walking the shoulder of a road. She ignored the twisting in her stomach, acting inconspicuous until the car was well past her.

Then she picked up her pace.

When Doctor Lucinda Peale began her work on the neurological rehabilitation of violent criminals seven years ago, she hadn't imagined it would lead to her teaching neural overlay techniques in the depths of a government bunker. She was not so surprised to find that she was a fairly good teacher. It was more of a revelation that she could get through these classes without surrendering to the urge to run from the room.

"Neurotransmitter cascades produced by the overlay can spill beyond the areas intended to be impressed with the new neural pattern. When programming the overlay sequence, it's wise to create a buffer area a few neurons deep. Here, you would have the stimulator actually reinforce the preexisting pattern of neurotransmitter release and uptake within the neurons. That will block any unintended spread."

As her scientist pupils took notes, Lucinda displayed images from magnetoencephalograms of a brain as illustration. The subject's name was expunged, but Lucinda knew him quite well. Mohsen Abdi had been part of the nuclear terrorist plot that had destroyed Washington. When she was brought here to help uncover the terrorists, she had helped overlay the remorselessly monstrous portions of his frontal cortex with patterns from a more placid and moral brain. Thus treated, Mohsen became eager, indeed desperate, to give up his co-conspirators.

Lewis Burleigh, the Treasury Secretary until Washington's incineration made him President, leaped on the practical possibilities of overlay. He began the crash program to expand drastically the number of scientists trained in the procedure. Lucinda had joined his program, though after seeing the scope of what Burleigh intended to do, it came with the greatest reluctance, and coercion.

"Of course, when altering something as complex and interconnected as the human brain, the least effect is the best. That's why it's so important to segregate areas of the brain unrelated to the overlay from areas being altered. It's why, when planning your overlay, you should avoid as many redundancies as you can, the same way a computer programmer does when writing code. By concentrating your – yes, Ms. Madsen?"

The young woman lowered her hand. "Isn't this being too fastidious, Dr. Peale? Don't we risk being less effective if we try too hard to limit the overlay's scope?"

Lucinda felt a prickle of affront, having a grad student talk back this way. She didn't mind a good scholarly give and take, but this felt different. She looked at Madsen, while sensing the other eyes on her. "Any good surgeon wants to cut as little tissue as possible, especially healthy tissue. The same principle applies here. The guidance descends from the Hippocratic Oath itself: first, do no harm."

"How is that relevant here?" Madsen said. "You have a diseased brain, just another kind of organ. The more of its diseased cognition you replace with a healthy one, the better."

Lucinda felt like her ribcage was squeezing her. "It isn't the whole brain that's diseased."

"If the brain is an interconnected whole, why not?"

As Lucinda gathered herself to reply, she grew aware of the student behind Madsen. Dr. Garritty was much closer to her age, and a very attentive student. Right now, his attention was all on her, his dark eyes peering deeply, measuring her, gauging her reactions and responses. It felt disturbing, but maybe she was being paranoid. This place bred that.

"Years of work and hundreds of cases have shown otherwise, Ms. Madsen. I can confirm that from experience both professional and personal. Now—"

"Begging your pardon," Madsen said, "but the supplemental materials for this course are skeptical of that."

Lucinda smiled bleakly. "I'm not involved with producing those." She didn't have full control over their education. She wondered whether even someone Burleigh fully trusted would.

"Anyway," she continued, "if you need practical rationales, aside from not destroying aspects of a person's personality that aren't pernicious, aside from the added difficulty of integrating the new patterns, there are the simple needs of interrogation. If you expect a patient to talk once he's treated, you don't want to have overwritten the knowledge you were hoping to learn."

A new hand went up, and its owner didn't wait to be called. "That's a valid concern within its sphere," Dr. Page said, "but it's only a subset of our mission. We're looking at a bigger picture, the broader problem of extremism. People we'll be treating won't all have been participants in violent conspiracies. Different standards will apply."

"We understand the work you've done, and are doing," Madsen said, "but you need to see beyond that, and consider what we'll be doing."

Lucinda tugged at a lock of her hair, then caught herself. That nervous habit was growing on her down here. "It seems some of you have done a thorough job of considering it already." She tried to focus on getting the class on track again, but her eyes kept drifting back toward Dr. Garritty, still gazing right at her, jotting down notes as fast as if she were still lecturing.

"When were you recruited into the terrorist cell?"

The interviewer was one of many they had cycling through the position here. Lucinda hadn't seen one handle more than two interrogations. The detainee was shackled at wrists and ankles, and had his head and upper body obscured within the magnetoencephalographic scanner. Microphones inside amplified his answers, both for the interviewer and for Lucinda and her colleague in the monitoring booth. He gave a glib denial of any involvement, one that a casual glance at the scans of his frontal lobe exposed as falsehood.

This was the part of her existence under Mount Weather that Lucinda could bear, and even feel was worthwhile. This person, apparently a moneyman, had aided those who destroyed Washington. She felt no sympathy for him, since he felt none for others. The point of the overlay she was helping prepare was to make him someone who would care about those he had killed. That motive had started her down this road years back.

"How soon after you joined the cell did you know they meant to set off a nuclear weapon?"

As for the other prisoners being brought into the Mount, the ones not connected to Black Friday, Lucinda never saw them. She knew about them by intimation and inference, from the talk she overheard from other scientists and technicians. Insofar as doing this work freed someone for that work, she was abetting them. That took some of the satisfaction out of her endeavors.

"Once you knew what they meant to do, how many they meant to kill, were you ever tempted to stop their plans, or at least disassociate yourself from them?"

Lucinda paid closer attention to the brain scans now. The prefrontal cortex showed a classic pattern of underactivity, the dulling of moral awareness that let him shrug off the horrors he had helped to inflict. "Reading any cingulate cortex stimulation?" she asked.

Dr. Edwin O'Doul shifted one of his displays. "Slight increase in activity," he said dully. "Nothing extraordinary."

So reflecting on his deeds didn't give him any particular pleasure. Maybe that feeling had faded in the eleven weeks since the attack. Whatever the cause, it meant a little less work for Lucinda, another small reason to be glad.

The feed from the scanning room skipped. The interviewer's position jumped, and the colors in the MEG scans shifted abruptly. Lucinda knew what this meant by now: they were getting pre-recorded data, edited to omit material somebody thought too sensitive for their level of security clearance, or perhaps their personal and political reliability. The latter probably reflected on her more than O'Doul. She ignored the cut, and the second one a few minutes later, and kept working on the data they did receive.

Once the session recording ended, they had a good idea of what pathways in his brain needed to be overwritten. Finding a good matching pattern in the template banks was now their goal. Those banks had expanded under Burleigh's oversight, with plenty of new people getting scanned. Those people were all approved by Burleigh: old political allies he had brought in to reconstruct the government, members of his security forces, some of the scientists and technicians flooding in who clicked with him. Basically anyone Burleigh found harmonious with him could be part of the template cache, including Burleigh himself. Lucinda's pattern had been in the banks once, but of course it was gone now.

It had begun this way, Lucinda recalled. The California legislature was ready to smother their research in its infancy, until she had the idea of taking the legislators' brain patterns as templates. It gave them a sense of control, of ownership, over the program. President Burleigh had to feel the same way. Lucinda had repented of her expedient compromise years before, but the price for it kept growing.

She pulled up the standard pattern comparison routines they used, and began adding elements to adjust for the particular brain of the detainee. She asked O'Doul for information and opinion a couple times, and got terse answers. He never asked her for help, even though he was making his own additions.

"You've been very quiet today," Lucinda said.

"Not really."

That didn't convince her. "You know you can talk to me, Edwin," she said. They had been thrown together here on that day, working on the very first perpetrator brought in. That counted for something to Lucinda.

"Yes, yes. Let's get this work done, make some difference while we can."

Lucinda turned over his words for a moment, until her heart dropped. His daughter Lauren had been a med student at Georgetown when the nuke went off. She had stayed in Washington to help the flood of injured. She had made some difference – while the radiation from the salted bomb did its work. She had been badly ill the last two months. That must have ended.

She gently laid a hand on his shoulder, but felt him stiffen at the consolation. She had tried to empathize with him before, but losing colleagues and losing family were in different universes to him. Lifting her hand, she said "Talk with your friends, please."

O'Doul made a soft grunt. "These three templates look like our best options."

Lucinda looked back at the screens. "Yes, I think so."

She let the other subject lie. If he wouldn't confide in her, that was his right. If he wanted to bury himself in work to assuage his grief, if he made himself a cog in Burleigh's machine, Lucinda was in the wrong position to condemn him.

She passed close to O'Doul, who didn't turn to see her. He was talking softly to other members of his old Johns Hopkins research team. That gladdened her. Apparently he was getting the support he needed from them, even if she might have felt better if she could have given it.

Her students had two tables close together, and she slipped by them quickly. She got only a few glances from some of them, and that same long look from Dr. Garritty. When she found a nearly empty table, she made sure to sit facing away from him.

Lucinda ate without savoring, even though it dimly registered that the broccoli salad was quite good. She pulled out printouts of two medical papers, and got to reading them, underscoring and making marginal notes when she wasn't taking bites of dinner.

"There you are!"

Lucinda knew the voice, but was stunned when she saw the face looking down upon her. "Nancy?" she gasped. "Dr. LaPierre? When did you—"

"Just yesterday." LaPierre took the seat opposite Lucinda. "It's been a while, Lucinda."

The affable tone made Lucinda squirm. They were not friends, certainly not after that last day. "But, but you refused to come here. How did they bring you in?"

"I volunteered." A self-effacing smile shone from her dark face. "What can I say? I was wrong. I thought the government would be using overlay, using us, to justify attacks. Instead, from all I saw from the outside since January nineteenth, they've been digging to expose the roots of the evil." LaPierre was right, partly. America hadn't launched military reprisals beyond its borders, even though from the early interrogations Lucinda had assisted, two countries seemed tied to the plot. And Burleigh was chasing down individuals connected to the attack, in America and in a few obliging nations. He was also going after violent, or potentially violent, extremists at home.

Burleigh's definitions of "potentially" and "extremist," though, were expansive. She had seen him expound on his vision of ridding the world of the personalities who would commit such atrocities, across the world, but in America first and foremost, as a grand example. He seemed to have a lot of people in mind. "So when they came asking again," LaPierre continued, "I was glad to agree. I probably should have sought them out before then. It would have been, well, a betrayal to the friends we lost not to join the work."

Lucinda felt a pang. She wouldn't have called all three colleagues who had been testifying to Congress that day friends, but that didn't soften the pain of losing them. A fourth, Sam Jeong, had gotten killed in "disturbances" that brewed up on Berkeley's campus after the bombing, and that had been worse, in its way. "That's what I thought," Lucinda said, "when I joined."

"I remember that," LaPierre said, briefly sour. "I'm still sad at all the time I lost. If that NSA agent who scooped us up and flew us out hadn't been so belligerent, insisting we do everything today so we could go kill people tomorrow, I might have made a different decision. Lord, I hope he's not running around here, giving that talk to people."

Morris Hope hadn't been nearly as unthinking as LaPierre recounted, but that no longer mattered. "You don't have to worry about him any more, Nancy. He's been fixed."

"Been what?"

"It's a slang term that's cropped up here," Lucinda said, looking into her salad bowl. "Came from something President Burleigh said, according to my students. Someone was questioning him about whether we were breaking prisoners with torture to roll up the conspirators. 'We're not breaking anyone,' he said—"

"'We're fixing them,'" LaPierre said. "I watched that press conference. That was when I started changing my mind about matters." She smiled. "So what's-his- name got overlaid."

Lucinda just nodded. He had recoiled from her the one time she'd seen him, two weeks after the bombing. He was plainly ashamed to see her, to recall what he had said on that day, and slinked away. That tough but thoughtful man was gone. Even if they had another chance meeting, she'd never really see him again. She probably wouldn't ever see Kate Barber again, either. Her colleague had been scooped up along with herself and Nancy by Agent Hope the day Washington died. Kate had refused to be part of Burleigh's project, a stand Lucinda hadn't had the courage to make, and was interned in some unnamed place. How interesting that Nancy showed no interest in her fate.

"Good," LaPierre said. "We've got millions of yahoos in this country calling for blood, but now it's one less." She took an encompassing look at where she was. "Or maybe more."

Lucinda had reached her limit. Luckily, her tray was almost empty, so her retreat wouldn't look blatant. "Well, I guess we'll be crossing paths now and again." She started getting up.

"Oh, more than that, Lucinda. I'm going to be your supervisor, starting next week."

Lucinda nearly dropped the tray. "After just getting here?"

"I was surprised, too," LaPierre said, her smile widening, "but someone above pulled a few strings. Of course, I'm trying to get Julio from our team here too, but they don't have so much need for low-level assistants here. Of course, Sam wouldn't come even if I asked."

This time, Lucinda slammed down her tray. "It's vile of you to joke about the dead that way," she hissed, and turned away.

"Dead? Didn't you know?"

Lucinda stopped three paces from the table, dozens of eyes on her. She walked back, only so she wouldn't have to speak up and draw more attention. "Know what?"

"Sam survived. It was touch and go, and he's still in physical therapy. Still in a terrible mood last time I visited him, three weeks ago. So scornful, so bitter." She tipped her head. "I think he blames you for something. Has he told you what?"

"I've never heard from him. I – I never knew." So why hadn't she heard?

The women's dormitory was already half-filled. Lucinda crossed it, swerving around yellow partitions and through half-blocked walkways, to get to the information officer's booth. She lifted up the ID hung around her neck so the woman could scan it. "Picking up," Lucinda told her.

The officer checked her terminal. "You have three messages. Two internal, one external."

Lucinda put her pocket-comp into the officer's outstretched hand. The woman plugged a secure fiber-link into it, uploaded the messages, and handed it back. "Thank you," Lucinda said automatically.

She weaved through the dormitory again, back to her semi-private bunk. It had been a long time since she had had a private room here, and most of the women here had never had that equivocal privilege. She sat down on her cot, dialed up the first message on her comp, and found the rumors about things getting worse confirmed.

Emergency elections for the new Senate would happen in a few days. The new Senators would be coming to Mount Weather directly, naturally taking up prime living quarters. Those bumped would be coming down to the dorms. Things would be getting more crowded. It was bad news, but small change to Lucinda.

The second internal message urged anyone who felt traumatized or conflicted to seek confidential assistance at a certain office. This had an ominous sound to Lucinda. However she might feel, she wouldn't be going there.

She opened the external message, and sat up straighter. It was a letter from Josh.

Calling Joshua Muntz a "special friend" sounded like a mealy-mouthed euphemism, but it was the closest Lucinda could come to describing their relationship. They were more than friends, but not lovers by the common definition. Josh's past, which he had undergone an overlay to escape, left him uncomfortable in taking that final step. Lucinda respected that, and him.

She dove into his letter, hoping it might have some news about Sam. All she found, though, were commonplaces.

Your parents have finally settled into your house. Good idea to move them up here, out of their apartment. There was a glitch with your direct deposit, but we fixed it, so their finances are set. I think they've come to like me, even with my past.

Ben isn't whining at night any more. I have a neighbor, Andrea, who's done some dog training. She knew a trick, and Ben's feeling better now. I still wish he could have stayed over at your house, but allergies are allergies. And I know he misses you, Luci. Me too.

My job's going fine ...

Her eyes began to skip. It was unfair to expect eloquence of him, but she couldn't help some impatience.

I still don't really understand what you're doing there, Luci, and why you've stayed with it so long. It doesn't seem quite like you, or at least the way I thought of you. You ought to come back here, to your university. I know one or two folks there who would be glad to see you again.

She read that section again. Was he trying to say something between the lines? Hinting about Sam? She well knew that outgoing mail was censored, and suspected that incoming material was too. Might Josh know that, and be dodging around it? She couldn't know, and she couldn't ask.

She read Josh's last lines, but nothing there gave her any succor. She powered down the pocket-comp. She was no nearer the answers to her questions – and she felt no nearer to Josh, either. Or anyone.

She nearly turned it back on, to write to him, or to her parents. Instead, she slid it under her cot. Maybe she could write when she didn’t feel eyes looming so close over her shoulders.

Lucinda drew the translucent partition, and started changing for bed. She might read a while – or might just go straight to sleep. That was her only sure refuge these days.

II

A roadside diner was ahead, its parking lot half-full. Lucinda scrutinized its near side and front as she walked, but didn't find one. On the far side, though, she hit paydirt: a single old-fashioned pay phone.

She looked through her change purse again. She hadn't needed cash the last eight months, and a good thing, too: she wasn't carrying any when she was scooped up.

That was almost literally true. She had a dollar coin, two quarters, and a few nickels and pennies. It might be enough, though.

She reached the phone and read its front plate. Local Calls: $1.50 (3 min) Long-Distance: $2.50 (2 min)

Lucinda cursed her luck. No local call could help her. She checked the change slot, then stalked away. She wandered around the lot, trying to think of a new plan, her eyes on the dirt and scattered gravel underfoot, just in case.

And her luck turned. She caught a glint of dull brass, reached down, and found a dollar coin in the dust. She started racing back to the phone, checking her momentum when she saw people walking out of the diner.

She put in the two dollars and two quarters, and heard the click interrupt the dial-tone. She hoped she remembered his cellphone number correctly, and punched it in.

It probably had no official name, but everyone called it the Memorial Room. Dozens of photographs hung on the oak-paneled walls, framed images of the White House, The Capitol Building, the Washington Monument, the Supreme Court Building, The Mall, all those places that had been destroyed. Even landmarks that still stood, like the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, had their places, though with perhaps less black crepe adorning the frames.

Lucinda didn't see most of the images any longer. The conference room was familiar enough that everything there receded into the background. She quickly found the placard with her name and sat down, managing not to groan when she found Dr. LaPierre's name next to hers.

Other people filed in over a few minutes. LaPierre sat down briskly, a bit surprised to find Lucinda there. O'Doul walked in with a colleague whose thin, patchy hair showed he'd been one of the Johns Hopkins doctors who rushed into Washington that day. To Lucinda's regret, they sat far from her. So did Ms. Madsen and Dr. Garritty, two of her freshly graduated students making a foreboding appearance.

When Donna Laskey, nominal chief of the overlay program, arrived, she took a seat one down from the unoccupied head of the table. Lucinda knew what this meant, and got ready to rise. A moment later, everyone stood as President Lewis Burleigh entered the room.

He looked better than the first time Lucinda had met him. His suit was perfect, his sparse gray hair well-groomed, and some of the pallor had gone from his face. Ten guards, four in civilian suits, six in Army uniform, spread across the room.

Burleigh went to his seat, then past it. "Curtis," he said, reaching for Dr. Garritty's hand, "glad to see you."

"Likewise, Lew – uh, Mr. President," said Garritty, and Lucinda's stomach went into free-fall. All those looks from him finally came into focus.

"Sorry to be keeping you at the Mount for now," said Burleigh, "but I own I'll make it easier on you. Oh, sit down, everyone."

They all did. Even though the President had appointed Laskey to supervise overlay matters, he still sat in on the majority of these weekly meetings. The program was his creation, his tool. Even as Laskey opened the meeting with a mass of technical items, she did it as a subordinate.

Lucinda took her minimal part in proceedings, giving the information requested of her and no more. She had made cautious proposals at the first few meetings, recommending they leave a light footprint, both in numbers of overlay patients and breadth of alterations made to their brains. Those meetings taught her not to waste her time, or to expose her dissent, however guardedly. The others obliged her by noticing her as little as possible.

New business eventually came up, and Burleigh took the reins. "Everyone probably knows by now that the special House elections are done," he said, an unwitting smile showing he approved of the results. "They'll be joining the Senate here in a few days, and that's going to stretch lodgings here pretty thin. Some people are going to be doubling up on their bedding. 'Hot-cots,' they call them: sleeping in shifts."

He named nobody, but Lucinda was sure she'd be getting the short end. Living under the Mount had bred pessimism, mostly because it was so often correct. She began winding a stray wisp of hair around her finger.

"Fortunately, that will be temporary," Burleigh continued, "because in several weeks we'll be opening up our first auxiliary location for the overlay program, and transferring part of your operations over to it. It's still a secure location, of course, but it will be more comfortable, with room to grow."

Appreciative murmurs trickled across the room. Lucinda felt briefly better herself, until she saw the implication of how big this undertaking was becoming.

"For those who'll be moving, the restrictions you've had to live with here will be noticeably loosened." The sounds of gratitude were stronger this time. Lucinda let herself smile, on their behalf. "For those remaining here, we'll be able to ease this restrictions for some of you as well. For others, well, some issues will finally have to be resolved."

Burleigh's eyes were right on her. To other observers, it was a casual glance, without hostility, without plain intent. Lucinda knew better.

"From the beginning, we've needed every single expert we could gather here, to perform the therapies, refine techniques, and train a new cohort so we can expand our capabilities closer to what's needed long-term. Now that those new specialists are ready—" Burleigh gave a nod toward Garritty and Madsen. "—we can undo that necessary compromise.

"In purging the evils of extremism and violence from our country, we must be vigilant not only about whose brain templates are used, but about who does the work. This undertaking is about finding and fixing people who are dangers to the survival of humankind. Letting such people have shelter here, in positions of power over the work itself, is an intolerable contradiction. I own the responsibility for letting it go this far, but that's over.

"Every member of the overlay project will be undergoing MEG scans to check for destructive, intolerant, primitive mindsets that make them unfit for work here. There will be only a few exceptions, where the subject is known to be beyond suspicion." Burleigh gave another of his looks to Dr. Garritty, who smiled back. "Everyone else, though, must undergo it, if only to alleviate any suspicion."

Lucinda knew she was finished here, and it brought a strange relief. Her powerlessness here would be over. Outside, she might have a better chance to affect matters, to join with others to fight Burleigh, somehow. And she could let all the pain flow out, heedless of whether some guard or camera spied her.

O'Doul put his hand up. "Mr. President, what becomes of someone who fails this test? Is he just sent home?" he wondered, a tone of hopefulness peeking through.

"Out of the question," Burleigh said. "We'd have to detain any such individual – or in certain cases adjust him, or her."

Burleigh's rough words were like a door slamming in Lucinda's head. She barely heard someone else ask "Could you define 'certain,' sir?"

"Simply a judgment call on how threatening to our safety that person is." His eyes were right back on her, the veil cast aside from his intent. "Or if that person has enough enlightenment to own up to the truth and request a therapeutic overlay, no indefinite detention would be necessary." The President smiled, so reasonably. "Donna, you have the schedule and question checklists, right?"

"Right here, Mr. President." Laskey produced them from an attaché.

"Thank you," Burleigh said, taking the schedule. "Torrance, O'Doul, Murcia. Yes, that's good, but we need to start with you, Ms. Peale."

Those few who hadn't noticed his meaningful looks turned to Lucinda. She held herself steady and, matching his brashness, said "Fine. When?"

"Oh, now. Curt, are you checked out on the Penn State lie-detection methodology?"

Dr. Garritty looked positively eager. "Yes, sir. I did some extra studying the last month. The Penn State method's always interested me."

"Excellent. This meeting's all but over, so take one of Director Laskey's checklists, get Peale to a scanning room, and do the job." He looked almost disinterestedly back at Lucinda. "This is a formality, of course. I'm sure there's no reason to doubt the result."

Two of the soldiers had moved to flank Lucinda. She stood, summoning up the last of her brazenness. "I don't see why there would be, Mr. President."

The cart drove through narrow streets toward the medical complex. Added lamps on the cavern ceiling had alleviated Mount Weather's permanent twilight, but Lucinda saw only darkness.

Her head had been buzzing since she left the Memorial Room, as she struggled to find some escape from her predicament. The soldiers close by, even in the cart, made flight hopeless, even if she had known how to get out of the Mount. As for fooling the brain scans, that was impossible. They detected signs of prevarication within the mind even before a subject could speak. Only pathological liars wouldn't be caught by the Penn State method, and readings in other areas gave that condition away. Refusing to answer would only confirm the President's conclusion by different means.

What was left? Feigning illness to avoid the session? Transparent, and ignominious. Pleading to Dr. Garritty for mercy? Pointless, and ignominious. She had one option remaining, and it felt better to her with every passing moment.

The cart stopped, and her escorts saw her out of the vehicle. Garritty led the way inside. A few people in the corridors stared as the procession passed them. Lucinda saw them, and kept her head high. She hoped they would remember that.

An examination room awaited them, the same one usually reserved for people connected to the Washington attack. "Help her into the bed, please," Garritty asked the guards. As they strapped her down, he worked on the computer, presumably calling up the Penn State protocols. Lucinda winced when her keepers cinched the bonds too snugly, but said nothing. Once finished, one of the guards stepped out of the room. The other took position by the shut door at something like parade rest.

Garritty touched a button, and Lucinda began sliding into the scanning tube. "Actually," she heard him say over the hum of the sliding bed, "could you stand watch outside, Corporal? I'll get a cleaner scan with fewer people diverting the subject's attention. I'll call if I need you."

Lucinda was inside the tube now, but she could hear the door, the footsteps, and the door. That left only Dr. Garritty's shufflings, and her own breath. She waited.

"Please state your name," she heard over the speaker installed in the interior of the scanner. Truth scans didn't really need this calibration, but it did provide a little useful precision.

"Lucinda Dolores Peale," she said. Other questions came. "Forty-six. Nogales, Arizona. UCLA, undergrad through doctorate." It didn't shift her composure. She was ready for the real questions.

She heard more shuffling, and tapping at a keyboard. "Dr. Peale, do you harbor any moral or ethical doubts about the work you, and others, are doing here?"

"No, Dr. Garritty, no doubts whatsoever." She took a deep breath. "I am quite certain that this project is a perversion of everything I hoped neural overlay would be."

"What – umm, wait a minute."

Lucinda didn't wait. This felt too good. "Not only is this the apotheosis of government power-grabbing – something I'd almost expect under the circumstances – but it's the biggest bait-and-switch I've ever witnessed. Burleigh is using the cover of investigating Black Friday to conduct an assault on an entirely different group. I remember a time when you people didn't approve of that."

"Dr. Peale, we need to stop for a moment."

She heard his confusion, and almost laughed. "No, I don't think so. I need to voice my beliefs before I'm brainwashed out of them. Treating dissent as a mental illness has its precedents, you know. The Soviet Union comes to mind. So does Orwell: you can't escape thinking about him here."

The bed began sliding out of the scanner. "Then think about him quietly," Garritty hissed.

"What, you don't like hearing that you're everything you've ever accused your political opponents of being, and more?" Her voice started rising. "You mean that, in the words of the famous actor, you can't handle the truth?"

Hands reached inside, clamping over her mouth. "I'm fine with the truth, Lucinda," said Garritty, his face now becoming visible. "I had just expected you to lie. Now I have to start all over."

Before she could absorb this, someone knocked at the door. "Doctor?"

Garritty turned. "No problems here, Corporal."

"All right."

Garritty sighed, with a shudder Lucinda could feel through the hands he still had over her mouth. "I was planning on falsifying the readings," he whispered, "letting you pass this little inquisition, so I could have someone inside here to work with. If you'll go along, I can still do that."

He must have taken her look of disbelief as a plea to speak, because he lifted his hands. "You mean ... you're not ...?"

"I'm not on Lew's side, if that's what you mean. He may trust me, but – well, it's a long story. So, are you with me, or were you looking forward to going out in a blaze?"

Lucinda almost got mad, until she realized that she had been enjoying her Joan of Arc performance. Now she had another alternative – if she could trust Dr. Garritty. This seemed too great a stroke of luck, but on the flip side, she couldn't see what stringing her along this way could gain Burleigh and company.

And she hadn't had a friend within two thousand miles for a long time.

"If we're going to do this," Lucinda said, "we'll need it to be plausible. Burleigh won't believe I'm four-square on his side, no matter what your scans say. I've got a cover story in mind to explain away my antagonism. Just follow my lead with the questions."

"All right." He didn’t sound sure, but didn't question her further. He took a step away, then turned back. "The President really mistrusts you that much?"

"Yes, and I almost consider it an honor."

His mouth slowly turned upward, and his face seemed to shed years. "My kind of gal." He was still smiling as he slid Lucinda back inside the scanner.

She heard nothing the rest of the day. She couldn't read anything into that, but it made the waiting no easier. When she lay down on her cot that evening, she wondered whether somebody would arrive in the middle of the night to take her away. She fell asleep, eventually, waiting.

The next day passed twice as slowly. She had a new partner in O'Doul's place, and never thought to wonder whether his absence was temporary or permanent. She worked on autopilot, worry always roiling in the back of her mind. She never gave a thought to the two men whose brains she analyzed: her mind was more on whether she should have written her parents last night, when it might have been her last chance. Eventually she comforted herself: if she was going to be fixed, they probably wouldn't let her say anything to the outside before they came for her.

Lucinda went without lunch, and by dinnertime still had no appetite. She went to the canteen because she knew she needed food even if she didn't want it. A couple people seemed surprised to see her. She found this darkly humorous: had they expected her to disappear that quickly? And why shouldn't they have?

She sat at the table next to the Johns Hopkins group, and noticed that O'Doul wasn't there. She began thinking about him, as she worked at whatever chicken dish was on her plate.

"I think he wanted it. Ed wanted them to take him away."

Lucinda perked up, but didn't turn. That was Dr. Rory Singer, a colleague of O'Doul she had met a few times, who sounded like he was in mourning.

"He was feeling so hopeless, and couldn't talk about it. It was grief, of course—" Singer's voice dropped. "—but there was a strain of hatred, too. A need for vengeance he just couldn't master."

"That's just intolerable," Dr. Mara Bournazian said.

"Of course, of course. He had to know that, but he couldn't rid himself of it. That's why he gave himself over: so they could make him better."

"Well. That was the right choice, then. I'm glad he was that wise. So how do we adjust our schedule so—"

Lucinda didn't listen any more. She fought down nausea, while one hand twitched, wanted to clutch at her hair. Edwin was gone. Even if he returned to duty, it wouldn't be the same man. It was as though he had committed suicide. In a sense, perhaps he had.

She forced down more food, until her stomach would take nothing else. She tried to look casual as she disposed of the remnants and left, but they had to see it, the horror and pity and disgust emanating in waves from her. She walked toward her dormitory, as fast as she dared.

Someone swung around in his tracks, aiming for her. Lucinda seized up inside, as her feet kept carrying her. The figure came up right beside her, and she relaxed only a little to see it was Garritty.

"You're clear, Lucinda," he said softly. "The President accepted the result, though I can't say he trusts you yet."

Her viscera unwound a quarter-turn. "All right."

"He'll still wants someone keeping an eye on you, and I think I persuaded him to make me that someone."

"All right."

Garritty took a quick look at her. "Okay. I'll contact you later, when you're feeling safer." He began to peel away, then swerved back. "I'll try to match your resourcefulness, Lucinda." He turned, and was gone in an instant.

She kept going a few hundred feet before she dared to sigh. A twinge of shame came upon her for driving him off, but her relief was greater. In a day or two, she could absorb this. Not now.

She resumed course for her dormitory. Maybe it was time to write Josh again, even if she hadn't gotten a response to her most recent letter. Maybe some of her relief would show through the self-censorship, and make things better between them.

Then she remembered her new bunkmate. She would still be on her first shift of sleeping, for another half-hour at least. Lucinda couldn't write at her bunk without risking making a fresh enemy, the last thing she needed, and she had no illusion that the common area wasn't watched.

Lucinda slowed, then turned away. She'd go look at that miserable little fountain running in the center of the compound, and write there. For a half-hour at least.

"Oh, Dr. Peale?"

Lucinda stopped halfway to her bunk-space. The information officer usually didn't call for someone. Part of her thought it might be Dr. Garritty, getting in touch after three days of nothing. The rest of her tightened up in a grimly familiar way as she walked to the booth.

"You have one internal message," the officer said, "and a pass." He wore a smirk he probably didn't know he was making.

Lucinda passed him her pocket-comp to upload the message. When she got it back, there was a scan-card placed across its screen. "Um, where is this pass for?"

"I believe the message says that, ma'am. Yes, Doctor?"

She stepped aside for someone else using the booth, and called up the new message.

Lucinda,

It was good to see you again a few nights back. It was better to find you might be interested. If you like, we could talk about that tonight, in my quarters. A map's attached.

There's no pressure. If you don't want to come, you don't have to. If you just want to talk, we'll do that. If you want to do more – we can do that too.

Curt

She wasn't looking at the information officer, but she could feel his look, his leer. She walked to her bunk, not looking back, and read the note again. Anger began to coalesce inside her like ice, before a moment of dispassion melted it. His plan had worked, after all.

Lucinda wasted a few minutes sitting on her cot, still warm from its other occupant, before gathering herself up to go. The information officer watched her pass with a vulgar satisfaction. She ignored it, telling herself it was for the best, as she scrolled up the map on her pocket-comp.

The directions led her onto familiar ground: she had been billeted here when she first arrived, when she was a needed and respected visitor. A soldier at a guardpost took her card and scanned it. "Up one flight," he said, handing it back, "and second on the left. Pass your card over the scanner by the door once you're there."

She reached the door and waved the card. A chime sounded inside. She waited, trying not to stare at the guard standing watch down the hall. The doorknob rattled, and then there stood Curtis Garritty, his hair mussed and his shirt looking like he had just re-buttoned it.

"Dr. Peale," he said, smiling. "So glad to see you. Won't you come in?"

She stepped inside, recognizing the layout immediately, feeling strangely at home. She dropped herself into a chair before Garritty could close the door.

"I guess my subterfuge worked." He read Lucinda's eyes right away. "I know, I'm sorry. Creativity failed me, so I went for plausibility. The fiction that we're lovers will let you come here at least every couple of days without talk." He caught himself, and turned a bit red. "Well, without suspicion."

Lucinda found herself nodding. "I understand. I'm not skilled at subterfuge either. Except maybe the solo kind."

His look showed understanding. "Anyway, we can talk freely now. Just keep it low, in case the walls are thin." He had walked over to a mini-fridge before seeing Lucinda's face. "What?"

Lucinda's eyes darted around the room. "What if you're bugged?" she said, barely more than mouthing it. "My information officer read your note, or acted like it. Couldn’t they--?"

Garritty glanced up at the ceiling. "In that case, we're doomed anyway." He took two cans out of the mini-fridge. "But Lew said I'd get VIP treatment here, and I'm guessing that includes my being spared close surveillance, even if you still get the business."

He sat on the bed near Lucinda's chair, and offered her one of the beer cans. She took it before realizing what it was, then looked at it funny. "Oh, I'm sorry," Garritty said. "Do you drink?"

"Not really." She popped it open, and took a long drink. "But there are exceptions." Garritty grinned. "Such as when talking to someone who knows the President of the United States as 'Lew.'"

Garritty blushed again. "I'll give you the short version. Lewis Burleigh was two years ahead of me when I enrolled at Northwestern. He stayed there for business school, so we were together my full four years before I went for my M.D. We were good friends then, and if that diminished on my side, it never really did on his. When he began bringing in people he could trust for his grand project, I was on his short list. It was already becoming pretty clear that you didn't say 'no' to him without paying for it, so I chickened out and said 'yes.'"

"I know how that feels."

Garritty took his first sip. "I guess you do. I had heard about you, how early you were part of the program, but I didn't know the details until our pas de deux in the exam room. I am sorry about the colleagues you lost in Washington, even Dr. Petrusky."

"Thanks." The cover story she had concocted for the President involved her battles in office politics, and other kinds, with Pavel Petrusky. He had wanted overlay technology used in ways very similar to how Burleigh was using them now, and Burleigh had explicitly cited Pavel's influence on his decision. Lucinda played that as her motivation for resisting the President then, and resenting him afterward. Bitterness over petty politics seemed something Burleigh would find wholly plausible, from experience. She had been right.

Thinking about Pavel got her thinking about the outside world again. "Would you be able to get messages out? Without being opened or censored? I have a couple colleagues back at Berkeley who could help us – don't laugh. Not everyone at Berkeley is like that. And there are things I'd want to tell my parents, my friends." She stopped short of speaking Josh's name.

"I think that might be impossible. Security's looser for me, but not lax. I'll try testing the bounds, though."

"Please." She took a good look at him, something she'd never done before. He was close to her age, his black hair dashed with gray, his eyes a dark, shadowed brown. He had a cleft dividing the point of his jaw, what she had called a "chin-butt" back when she was young and the future was nothing to fear.

"Dr. Garr—" She shook her head at herself. "What should I call you? Curt? Curtis?"

"The President calls me Curtis," he said, "so why don't you call me Curt?"

"I'll do that. And I'm Lucinda: Luci never caught on with me." She took another swallow of beer. "You've got a better connection to the outside world. Could you tell me some news?"

"Don't you get news in here?"

"There's the official daily digest. Might as well be Pravda. I could solicit gossip, but I'm not quite in the social mainstream here."

"I suppose you aren't." He took a sip, and rubbed his mouth. "Well, the country's still in crisis mode, and the government's taking advantage. They have the media pretty well tamed, accepting censorship over any information that might aid America's enemies."

"The terrorists?"

"Them, and ... others. A few papers and stations didn't play ball. Their licenses have been, ahem, suspended. Plenty of websites aren't playing ball, either, and they're tougher to suppress, especially the smaller ones. Their hosts are getting pressured, and a lot of 'volunteers,' a sort of hacker militia, are taking down sites that don't toe the line."

Lucinda shook her head. "Hard to accept that people would go along with that."

"They're going along with a lot of new restrictions. Commercial airline flights were only permitted again six weeks ago, and you need a pass."

"Let me guess. You have to undergo a brain screening to qualify, to show you aren't an extremist."

"Not everyone," Curt said, "but most. They even did that with the new Congress, if you can believe it. Burleigh found a few members he couldn't abide, and told the rest to refuse to seat them."

"I'd heard that. The Congresspeople are down here: I couldn't avoid picking up that gossip." Lucinda sloshed her beer can. There wasn't much left. "Curt, what does the public know about the attack, the people behind it?"

"Oh, a few names, but Burleigh tries to keep them secret, now that they've been made responsible members of society again. As for anyone behind them—" Curt gave Lucinda pointed look. "Do you know something about them?"

"Well, yes." She laid out what she had heard those first couple days after the attack, from the perpetrators she had scanned and overlaid. She named the countries: Iran and China. "I wouldn't call it ironclad, and China wasn't as clear, but it was pretty persuasive."

"And Lew knew about this."

Lucinda nodded. "I can't imagine he wouldn't."

Garritty looked ill for a moment, and set his beer aside. "Because the government has been laying out a lot of insinuations. Nothing outright, but enough to let people draw conclusions. They've been implying things about a band of hard right-wingers—"

"Oh, God."

"—who would've been glad to see the seat of evil government destroyed, and to exploit it to start a great purge, in America and abroad, fueled by the hate."

"Are people believing that?" Curt's smile was pained. "I'm sure at least some people do. And contrary points of view have had a tough time getting through. Of course, those who don't believe it are getting really outraged – which makes it easier to go after them as hate-mongers, and discredit anyone connected to them."

Lucinda's head bowed. The worst of it was how little surprise she felt at Burleigh's doings. "I guess the candidates have to tread a fine line."

"The ones that are left. Burleigh's got his nomination bagged. He all but ordered his two challengers to drop out, as a show of national unity, and of respect to the late President Davis."

"The one they were running against in the first place. No doubt, they obeyed."

"No doubt. A few of the Republicans did too, but they didn't have a chance in the first place. That race isn’t settled. Three are still running, and it could easily go to the convention."

He gave a summary of their half of the race, but Lucinda began tuning it out. It didn't seem to matter. Curt soon picked up on her mood.

"Lucinda, the President's going to be defeated. The American people won't stomach all of this forever. When they turn, when the facts get through to them, Burleigh's going to be blown away."

Lucinda tried to feel cheered, but it was like the wind trying to lift a leaden kite. "I used to believe that, back when I agreed to work here rather than be locked away. The last four months here, seeing things, doing things – that hope's fled."

"Of course!" Lucinda suddenly found him near, gripping her shoulders with strong hands. "Who wouldn't despair here, with no connection to the outside world? But things are different from the pinhole view you get here. Will you try to believe that?" Her breath hitched, as she felt her skin tingle under his hands. He soon backed away, sensing he had crossed a boundary. "Please?"

"Yes. Yes, I'll try." She saw his relief. "So what can we do here to work against Burleigh?"

Curt sat back down. "We'll have to think that over. It's not something to decide in haste. For now, though, the best thing you can do is to keep doing what they expect of you. Don't give anything away. As for me ... I'll do what I can to get us out of here. Both of us, into one of the new facilities, someplace less oppressive where we might have more room to act."

Lucinda thought, drinking the last of her beer to give her time. "If it were only doing what I've been doing, I could stand it. If they start making me do worse things ... I've borne a lot, but I can't handle much more. There are lines I cannot cross – and they're close."

Curt reached for her again, this time gently clasping her hand. "I'll do my best," he said. "And I'm sure you'll do yours."

"Watch the orbito-frontal activity, Lucinda. We might get something there."

"Yes." Lucinda did as Nancy LaPierre bid. She noted the lowered activity there: it came of the subject in the scanner talking in a fast, loud stream of consciousness to drown out his interrogator.

There were no questions about the terror attack this time. The technician in the scanning room was asking the fettered man about his associates in rural Michigan: whether they were stockpiling guns or explosives; whether they maintained hate websites; who in the family was part of his plots. None of those questions had gotten an answer.

Lucinda kept up her monitoring work by rote, not letting herself think. Soon, the questioner gave up. He rolled up the subject's trouser leg and jabbed in a syringe, drawing a scream. It was some specialized sedative they had been using here for a few months. The patient would become passive but still alert. Scans would no longer be cluttered, and they could read his innermost reactions to questions or suggestions or mere words. They would get their answers.

"Unbelievable," Nancy said, "how scary some people are. Depressing, sometimes. But knowing our thought reforms can make a difference makes it worthwhile. Don't you think?"

The words "thought reform" echoed in Lucinda's head. "It's why I got into this field," she replied, not actually lying.

Nancy smiled. "I know, and I'm glad you're here."

Lucinda made herself nod. She turned back to her work, while her mind turned back to a few nights before, the end of that first evening with Curt.

"This was a tool for good once. A weapon against violence, against the fear that creates – and now it's being used to create so much fear."

She didn't tell him how so much of that fear was hers, but she probably hadn't needed to.

The subject's shouts had faded to a fervid murmur. Lucinda strained to catch some of his words.

"... restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths ..."

Whoever this man was, he was terrified. Suddenly, whatever he had or hadn't really done, there was a bond between him and Lucinda.

"... of the valley of death, I will ... I will fear no ..."

His voice gave out. The drug had taken hold.

"Good," Nancy said. "Now we can get some work done."

III

He picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Josh? Josh, it's Lucinda."

"Luci! Oh, Luci, it's great to hear your voice. Things must finally be getting straightened out, if they let you use a phone."

"No. Josh, they're not. It's starting all over again. Listen, I don't have much time. I need help. I'm out of money, and—"

"Hold on." Josh spoke to someone off the line. Lucinda couldn't make either one out. "Okay, that new facility you're in, in Ohio, right, a couple miles outside—"

"I'm not in the facility. I broke out. I'm maybe a mile west of the city proper, at—" She craned her neck, and read off the diner's name. "I don't know the street, but—"

"That's okay, that's great. Hang on there, say fifteen minutes. It's gonna be all right." The line clicked, and static whispered.

"Josh? Josh!?"

Lucinda listened to Donna Laskey running down her agenda, with waning attention. It was the weekly meeting in the Memorial Room. The President had been called away by some unexpected political activity, and Laskey held the chair. Nancy LaPierre was sitting next to Lucinda, as always. Curt was several seats down, not looking his best.

Nothing noteworthy was being said, and Lucinda felt the urge to let Laskey's drone put her to sleep. She did drift away for a second, before something in Laskey's tone roused her.

"... our international students, coming in to be instructed in our overlay techniques. This is a vital part of our initiative in carrying our mental reforms across the globe. Dr. LaPierre, I'm sorry, but I'll have to borrow your assistant part-time, for some more teaching."

Laskey had barely referred to Lucinda by her name in two months. She was usually "Dr. LaPierre's assistant." Lucinda absorbed the news, keeping her face unmoved.

"I understand," LaPierre said. "We all have to play our parts. How soon?"

"Our honored colleagues from China will arrive in a week and a half. Will that be enough time for you to adapt your lesson plan, Dr. Peale?"

"I ..." Lucinda concentrated, searching for some way out of this. "I hope you're aware, Ms. Laskey, that I don't speak a word of Mandarin."

"Our guests speak excellent English, Doctor."

"And ... I hate to speak against myself, but I never thought I was that good a teacher."

"Your students have disagreed. Several of them praised you quite highly, including Dr. Garritty here."

Lucinda shot him a shocked look, but he wasn't facing her way.

"Dr. LaPierre is also well satisfied with your work, which I suppose she now has reason to regret reporting." She laughed, half the room following her. "So you're our pick, Doctor."

Lucinda had her guard back up by now. "All right. Let me see a schedule, and I'll get to work."

Laskey slid a few sheets down the walnut table, for others to pass down to Lucinda. "Other groups are going to our satellite facilities, but I'll inform everyone here when new students are coming to the Mount. Now, next on the agenda ..."

"How could you do that to me, Curt? The Chinese?"

Curt winced under Lucinda's words, even though she was keeping her voice down to guard to against eavesdroppers on his quarters. "I wasn't trying to angle you toward any specific assignment, Lucinda, much less this one. I was telling people the truth, and maybe a bit more, to put you in good odor."

"All right. I understand that, and I'm sorry. But the Chinese? They're responsible – not the students coming in, at least I hope – but for Burleigh to treat them as friends, make them part of his plans? It's—" She caught herself on the edge of a shriek. "It's monstrous."

"I know." Curt sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders caving in. "I'd say he must know something exculpatory about China, but I don't really believe that. And bringing them under the Mount? The super top-secret hideaway?" His head drooped. "But why should I be surprised?"

Lucinda regarded him, then sat by him on the bed. "Okay, enough about me. What's got you in a funk? You've been looking miserable since this morning."

"You haven't heard? Oh, right. You ought to read the news digests, even if they are slanted."

"I'll do that, if you tell me what's wrong."

Curt huffed out a breath. "The government raided the Republican National Committee yesterday. FBI, DHS, the whole shebang."

"On what grounds?" Lucinda said.

"All of them. Hate-mongering, sedition, treason. Same thing, really, with different names. I guess Gandy's acceptance speech was a mite strong for Lew."

"Oh, God." Lucinda clutched at her hair, twisting a strand. "What did they do to her?"

"She is, last I heard, a fugitive from justice. She's probably gone to ground in her home state." He walked over to the mini-fridge. "Beer?"

"No. If I started, I wouldn't want to stop."

"I'll cut you off before it gets bad, promise." He held out the can, but Lucinda snubbed it. With a shrug, Curt put it back inside. "Needless to say, the President is working to strike the Party of Hate from the ballot. Even if he can't manage that, the accusation's enough to ruin them, for this election, or longer." He opened his hands to Lucinda. "You were right, my dear. We are stuck with President Burleigh."

"Of all the things to be right about." Lucinda found her way to a chair. "So there's no point to delaying any more. We have to settle on a plan, or maybe more than one, and start acting."

Curt sat on the bed's edge. "I'm not sure anything we do will help much."

"Curt, we've procrastinated for two months, hoping the problem would solve itself. We don't have the luxury of that self-delusion any more."

"Okay, okay," he whispered, gesturing for her to keep her voice low. "But the problem is pretty intractable. We have to find a way to perform overlays that still preserves the personality traits we're supposed to be effacing, and do it in a way that fools follow-up scans."

They started reviewing the ideas they had produced over two months. A few, like hypnosis, were simply silly. Hypnosis required the will of the subject, so it couldn't hold up in patients whose wills had verifiably been altered. Other ideas, like producing nested neural nets, sounded good only until one got past the name. They had no idea how to hide one neural network inside another, or how it could be concealed from scans and still have any effect on behavior.

Transferring the trait of pathological lying could let a subject slip through a truth scan: the Penn State method couldn't pick up lying in a brain that thought, in the moment, it was speaking the truth. Regular MEG scans, though, could spot the new pathology. "And talk about the cure being worse than the disease," Lucinda added, capping their rejection of that plan.

One intriguing notion was implanting subliminal suggestions or commands via overlay. Having a "fixed" patient denounce his rehabilitation once on the outside had real potential. The doctors' problem was that programming something so precise would require using one specific template, and it would be hard to justify many uses of it. That, and the uncertainty of the work slipping past the screening scans, made them shelve the idea.

They were left with two plausible options. The first was to perform light overlays. The patterns imposed would hold up during confirmation scans, but the new neural pathways would de-potentiate over time, allowing the old pattern to re-emerge. This was a great idea, if it would actually work.

"All the research done on overlays," Lucinda said, "has been with the intent of making changes permanent. Our earliest experiments on dogs gathered some data on how much re-potentiation is required for permanent changes. I can reconstruct that, and make educated guesses about where the fuzzy line would be with humans, but I can't imagine I could gather any confirming data here until we started doing it this way. We'd be taking guesses."

"And the fuzzy line won't be the same for every single neuron," Curt added. "A patient might end up with two patterns jumbled together in the overlaid areas, leaving him a mental mess." He groaned. "But even that might suffice for our purposes. Enough of him re-emerges to lead him to denounce what was done to him, while his rough mental condition brings discredit to overlaying itself. I think it's our best option."

"No, our best option is re-overlaying subjects on the outside with their original patterns, but you keep telling me how dangerous that is."

"I'm sorry, Lucinda. Being the President's friend hasn't stopped them from monitoring my mail. I'm convinced of it. There's no way I could upload a file high in the gigabyte range to anyone without having it looked over, and I can't imagine they'd let me send a flash drive out of the Mount."

"But—" But her frustration didn't change the facts.

"Besides which, I'm not sure there's a trans-cranial magnetic stimulator left in America that's not under the government's control. That means there'd be nowhere to reconstruct our subjects' personalities. If I knew more ... but that's not a question I can ask anyone outside without the monitors red-flagging me."

"All right." Her head, hanging toward the floor, nodded. "Keep looking for a loophole, but unless we find one, the light overlays are our best option. I'll start working on finding the right potentiation threshold." She looked up. "You know, the pattern smuggling idea would have a better chance if one of us could get outside the Mount."

"I know," Curt grumbled, "but I can't swing it yet. The authorities are pretty stiff-necked."

Again, frustration hit Lucinda. "I guess Lew doesn't trust his friends that much after all. They still get their mail censored, and they can't transfer somewhere where they can breathe."

"I can transfer!" Curt caught himself, too late. "I'm sorry. Lucinda, forget that."

But Lucinda was already on her feet. "Curt, don't be some gallant knight. Leave me behind if you have to, but get out."

"No!" He took her by the wrists. "I remember how hopeless you were here, without any kind of support. I couldn't do that. We're going together, or not at all. Got that?"

His eyes were intent on her, intent and yet pained. Lucinda had heard Curt talk sometimes about his two teenage children from a failed marriage, how frustrating it was not to see them, to be close by in a scary world. He was hurting, but still he was adamant.

"All right, Curt. It's your call. For my part, I will try to – no, I will behave myself around my new students. No one will have reason to give me any black marks. I hope that's enough."

Curt's grip slipped down to her hands. "I know how difficult this is for you, Lucinda, I honestly do. Just remember, you aren't alone. You're never alone."

Lucinda took her time walking back to the dorm. She was taking another long step, teaching those Chinese scientists. It was another one of those things she couldn't have borne to do, at the start. It was terrible how accustomed to things you became, in time.

At least she had Curt as an ally – even if it was obvious how much more he wanted to be.

It did tempt her. He was the only support she had here, and it seemed the same for him. It would be easy to grasp all the comfort they could have for themselves, but she wasn't ready to take that long step.

Besides, in her worst moments, she doubted him. He had restrained her from precipitate action for two months, and now was telling her their more ambitious plans had to give way to incremental actions. Could he really be Burleigh's pawn, reining in her resistance, keeping her working for their interests as long as they could contrive it?

But that was lunacy. Far easier to scoop her into custody than to play such a game. Paranoia was becoming a habit down here. No, Curt was a friend. And only that.

Back at the dorm, she asked for her messages. "One internal," the information officer said. She tried not to look deflated as she had it uploaded.

Josh hadn't written her in almost three weeks now, even with two of her letters intervening. His questions about her work had grown complaining, almost selfish. Maybe it was how he veiled his other concerns in a way that would pass censorship – or maybe she was overthinking things.

Her parents were still writing, and hadn't mentioned anything odd about Josh. Who knew what was going on?

She went off to a corner of the dorm and read her new message. It was the daily news summary. Recalling Curt's chiding of her ignorance, she began reading it. She could only take a few pages before the content, and the tone, soured her.

She switched modes on her pocket-comp and started composing a letter to Josh. Half a paragraph in, she stopped, deleted, and started afresh to her parents. She couldn't confront Josh directly with the questions she had, but maybe others could get at it roundabout. And if she was avoiding painful matters, she had gotten a lot of experience in that lately.

Lucinda managed to enter the classroom without being sick, and got through her first lesson without bolting. The strange part, she thought later, was how quickly she took a liking to her nine students, despite what they represented.

They ranged from their mid-twenties to their mid-fifties. They all seemed smart, attentive, and receptive, which was no real surprise. They asked her good questions, in good English, which was maybe a bit more of a surprise. She had been restraining the complexity of her language for their benefit, and by the end of the lesson had repented. For a fleeting moment, she even felt a hint of her old enthusiasm for the science, a muted echo of its potential for good. That didn't last, but her fears about not being able to bear up didn't either.

A few weeks into the course, one of her students asked to stay behind after class. This caused a stir with the soldiers escorting them, but it got sorted out. One of them stayed behind, waiting just outside the classroom, while the other two herded their charges to wherever they went after class.

Wei Lifang had questions about the finer points of tuning the trans-cranial magnetic stimulator for deep work within the brain. Lucinda had meant to cover this next lesson, but gave Dr. Wei some early pointers. Wei thanked her, but did not turn to leave.

"Dr. Peale. I do not mean to give offense, but ... do you enjoy teaching this class?"

It might be a dangerous question, but Wei seemed too reticent to be an agent provocateur. Still, Lucinda was cautious. "I do. I've enjoyed having you as pupils. However, I did resist the assignment at first. I didn't think I was the best teacher you could have."

"Oh, you have been very good, Dr. Peale," said Wei, with a beautiful, almost musical British accent. "I hope our teachers are doing as well with your colleagues."

"Your teachers?" Lucinda kept herself under control, but she didn't have to feign the curiosity. "I hadn't heard about this." That made Wei wary. "So much work goes on down here, we don't get to hear of everything being done."

"Oh, yes. I know how that happens," Wei said, amused. "But it is a good exchange. You teach us the advanced overlay techniques, and we teach you our advanced work in – how is the word – neurotheology."

Lucinda didn't flinch. "Oh. Is it your fellow students teaching us, or others? Or is it you?"

"No, not me. Two of the students, and a few others."

"I see. I know a little about neurotheology. What are they teaching, or do you know?"

"I know some of it." Wei laid out the neurology, which Lucinda knew in large part. Religious experience and response had a seat within the brain, similar to those of vision or language. It lay largely in the temporal lobe, extending to the parietal lobe and amygdala, with tendrils stretching into the brain in individual patterns. Some wag had dubbed it "the God module" a quarter-century back, and the name had stuck.

"But you do not need to alter all of it to have profound effects," Wei said, warming to the subject. "In a compact area, you can manipulate the religious impulse, turn it in more productive directions, toward more, what is the word, appropriate figures."

"You mean worldly figures," Lucinda prompted.

"Yes. It is true, you see, to the tenets of Kong Fuzi – you Westerners call him Confucius." Lucinda nodded to keep her going. "Leaders possess the mandate of heaven, to take responsibility for peace, order, well-being. Virtuous and wise leaders deserve obedience. So this way, religious sentiment is appropriate for a great leader."

"I hadn't known this," Lucinda said, "about Confucius."

"It is an ancient truth we are rediscovering," said Wei. "The West is only beginning to learn it more recently. You see," she said chuckling, "you are the teacher, but now you are learning things from your student."

Lucinda smiled back. "Learning from students happens all the time."

She hurried to Curt's rooms, slowing herself only enough not to appear suspicious to the guards who scanned her now semi-permanent pass. She had gotten over worrying about their prurient thoughts, but running to see her supposed lover would set off even their alarm bells. She activated his doorbell with her passcard, and was mildly surprised to find Curt there.

"Lucinda? It's kinda early—"

She pushed her way inside, waved at him to shut the door, and collapsed into her familiar chair. "Remember how we thought we'd seen the worst from President Burleigh? Well, it just got worse. Much, much worse."

She spilled what she had learned from Wei Lifang, to an evolution of shocked faces from Curt. "And I couldn't say anything for four hours, all through my shift in the monitoring room. I swear I almost threw up in there. Had to tell Nancy I was catching a flu bug. At least that made her keep her distance."

Curt shuffled zombie-like toward the fridge, but his feet stopped, and he stared at a wall. "Can the President be serious?"

"Why not? Why is this any more unthinkable?" Lucinda ran a hand into her hair.

"So anyone in his clutches becomes what? Idolaters of the state? Worshippers in the cult of Burleigh? God, Rousseau wrote about this: combining the state and the divine, to be worshiped as one. And now Burleigh's doing it."

"And how long before it isn't just enemies he forces this on?" She twisted her finger, wrapping it in hair. "There's no end to it. The country stands by, and one by one—"

"Lucinda, please." Curt had her hand, and was unwinding it gently. "I know you're nervous, but that just sets me on edge." The lock of hair fell loose. "Besides, you'll pull out all your hair if you get any more anxious."

He patted her hand and paced away. Lucinda glanced at her hand, and began thinking.

"I'd heard some rumors: people voluntarily getting overlays to prove their loyalty. Even some loose talk about a personal loyalty overlay, but I never imagined such egotism from Lew."

"Ego," Lucinda echoed, too soft for Curt to hear.

"Shows how little I really knew him. Anyway, our hand's forced. We start our sabotage campaign now, with lightened overlays. The data you've gotten me should be adequate. I can perform them. It'd be easier with you on my team, but I think I can cover my tracks well enough." He groaned. "It isn't much, but it'll give the President a little less of what he wants."

"Wait. Maybe that's not right."

"What?" Curt stopped pacing. "You mean go for broke, try to smuggle out original patterns and—"

"No, no. Maybe we need to give the President too much of what he wants."

"Huh? Lucinda, what do you—"

She chopped her hand through the air. "Give me a moment, please." She thought intently, pulling together all the strands. Curt said nothing, leaning against a wall and waiting.

Lucinda finally looked up. "Curt, answer me honestly, because I could be wrong. Does President Burleigh have a certain verbal tic about using the word 'own' to mean 'internalize' or 'acknowledge,' especially about responsibility?"

"Oh, yes. He's been doing that since college. I hear it in his speeches now, when I actually listen."

"Then it's something people on the outside would pick up on?"

"If they've heard him talk, sure. And he has been talking a lot."

A tiny warning sounded deep in Lucinda's mind. The immediacy of her coalescing plan, though, overwhelmed it.

"Early in our human tests," Lucinda said, "we found that behaviors from the person providing the neural template could inadvertently be mapped onto the overlay subject. A physical tic from a template donor, rubbing at the chin, appeared in subjects who had not exhibited it before."

"Yes, I know that happens. Less now that scans are more precise. But I think I see where you're going."

"Right. What if we could reproduce such a behavior deliberately? What if we could impress Burleigh's verbal tic on our patients? Once they're released to the outside, would people pick up on it, make the connection? Would they be revolted by the prospect of infinite copies of Burleigh being cranked out?"

"I think they would," said Curt, warming to the idea. "There have been plenty of interviews of people who have been 'fixed,' 'reformed,' whatever. Lew's using it as propaganda of sorts: the sinners repentant. Yes," he said, pumping a fist, "this will work."

"If we can get a good template. He's already on file, but we weren't looking for any verbal tic then. And we certainly can't just copy his Wernicke's area wholesale into someone."

"That means a fresh scan," Curt said, "and something triggering his use of 'own.' Problem is, would he be willing to be scanned again?"

"You mean, would a man hoping to impose worship of himself and his government on the populace be willing to have parts of his own mind impressed directly on people more often?" She barked a laugh "Curt, this should be the easiest part of the plan. Just pitch it to him right: your vision should be more widely represented, a deeper scan would make your template more widely applicable, blah blah blah."

"Okay, Lucinda, I'll do that. But I'm telling him it's your idea."

"What?"

"For two reasons. One, it's true. Two, it'll put you in good with him, and that means we have a better chance of springing you from here."

"Since you put it that way, okay. Tell him, oh, that I heard about what was happening with his political enemies, and I decided to act."

Curt smirked. "That has a certain dual edge to it."

"Exactly. The best way to lie to someone is by wrapping it up in the truth." She sighed. "I think I might take a beer now."

"Sure thing." He fetched two, and handed her one. "You do know, Lucinda, I hadn't expected us to try to beat Burleigh by altering minds more instead of less."

Lucinda shuddered. That faint warning had just become a klaxon. "I know. I'm taking another long step down a road ... but no, we have to do this. It's our best shot; maybe our only one."

"I agree completely," Curt said. "And for what it's worth, I'll be doing the overlays. It's my overt act, not yours."

"That's ... well, it's something. Thanks."

"No problem. Here's to success." He touched unopened beer cans with her. "Now drink up. You could use it."

Lucinda and Curt prepared the equipment in the scanning room. Two Secret Service agents watched over their shoulders, while a third swept the room for any conceivable threat. The doctors made no protest. The more secure the President felt here, the better.

The third agent finished and left, with no indication whether she was satisfied or not. The others remained, silently observing. Lucinda felt no fear, only a quiet suspense. If Curt's face meant anything, he didn't even feel the suspense.

A moment later, agents and soldiers squeezed through the door, with President Burleigh two steps behind their phalanx. Curt automatically stood, and Lucinda followed a split-second behind. Burleigh's eyes fell on both of them, and Lucinda felt the first tiny kink in her stomach.

"Everything set up for me, Curtis?"

"Just a couple last things to do, Mr. President. I can finish those while you're getting into the machine. You can take off the coat and tie, if you like. Lucinda, I'll handle it here. Head up to the monitoring booth."

"In a moment, Doctor." She shrugged off Curt's surprise, and walked as close to Burleigh as his guards would allow. "Mr. President ... I owe you an explanation."

Burleigh's eyes grew guarded. "About what, Dr. Peale?"

"About how our relationship started off. I think you've heard part of it: that you were taking the side of my old adversary in office politics, and I resented it. That's completely true, but it isn't the entire story."

Curt whispered her name, but Burleigh gave a sharp "Go on."

"Well. It may be a character flaw of mine, but I hate being strong-armed, coerced, no matter by whom, no matter for what reason. Even if there are legitimate and urgent reasons for it, when someone pushes me, I get my dander up and I push back. That's what I did to you the day we first met. Regardless of how right you were, I was pushing back.

"I wanted you to know that I did things wrong that day, and regret it ... and that I see things differently now. I see you differently now, especially after what certain people tried to do against you and your program. You've proven yourself to be ... an American Pericles." Her eyes wavered. "I only hope you'll accept my apology."

"Of course," Burleigh puffed out. He reached for Lucinda's hand. She kept her grip soft, letting his firm pump dominate her. "And may I say, you're showing an uncommon maturity. I'm glad I was wrong about you, Dr. Peale."

"Thank you, sir," she breathed, and took back her hand. She passed close to Curt. "I'll be in the monitoring room, Doctor."

She made it to the monitoring booth without her serene visage cracking. Once inside, where she could be sure of some camera being on her, she kept herself looking professional. She switched on the live feed from the scanning room. President Burleigh was being secured onto the bed for the MEG scanner. He had his coat and tie off, and his collar open.

She allowed herself a smile. He definitely was relaxed.

He slid inside, and Curt began asking baseline questions. Lucinda could work through this part blindfolded by now. Soon, Curt had the President talking about his policies against terror and hate, and the need to defeat opposition to his initiatives. Burleigh needed little prompting to speak at length.

Lucinda noticed something unusual, and took a closer look. The prefrontal cortex was a patchwork, highly overaroused in places, underaroused in others. His sense of the morality of his actions was at once dulled and hyper-aware. She followed the exchange while checking records from some minutes back, and finally saw the pattern. He was convinced of his own righteousness, and much less concerned about the effects he had on others.

Seen that way, she could scarcely be surprised.

Having primed his patient, Curt switched to having Burleigh re-read passages from his speeches. Lucinda buckled down: here was the payoff.

Burleigh gave a good performance, and had no hesitation in giving a repetition, "just to be sure." During his second excerpt, Lucinda thought she recognized a flash of activity, focusing into Wernicke's area and then out again. Was that "own?" Was that the shape of a single word in a man's brain? Fortunately, she didn't have to decide that now, by herself.

Curt soon wrapped up the session, and made sure to lavish thanks on the President for consenting to assist them. "Of course, Curtis, of course," Burleigh answered, as an agent helped him on with his coat. "How could I decline for something so important?"

Like myself? Lucinda imagined him adding.

Once Curt had seen Burleigh out and shut down the equipment, he joined Lucinda in the monitoring room. They kept their conversation on the work of crafting the new template, work that would take them some time. Paring away the unnecessary pathways of neural activity was the easy part, the first chiseling of a granite block into a statue. Deciding what to include was the finer work – especially in one instance.

Curt waited a while before viewing the particular snippet Lucinda had saved for him. She noticed his attention, but kept to her end of the work, in case eyes were prying. Finally he spoke up. "Is this bit worth keeping?"

That was the code phrase they had settled on in his rooms. "I thought so," she replied, acting casual. "Let's make sure."

It took only a few minutes to be sure, and into the template it went. They finished the rest briskly, but not in obvious haste, and uploaded the result to the template bank. They both sighed as one, then smiled as one.

"Will I see you later this evening?" Curt asked.

"Yes," said Lucinda. "It'll be good to relax. See you then." With that, they left the booth, their performances done.

Lucinda checked in at her dormitory's information center – no messages – then finding her cot vacated early, laid down for half an hour to think. Next came dinner in the canteen: the salmon wasn't really good, and she didn't really mind. Then came a short walk along the dark streets of the Mount, before she turned herself toward a familiar building and fished out her passcard.

Curt met her at his door. She was already sitting on his bed when he eased the door shut. He walked up, quite calm and cool until the disbelief finally broke out all over his face. "Where did that come from?"

"You mean my buttering up the President? Did you like it?" She couldn't hold back a spreading grin.

"Like it! You – you should have told me – but no, I would have told you not to. And you totally sold him. How did you pull that?"

"I told you, the best way to deceive someone is with the truth." Lucinda began ticking off her fingers. "I do hate being coerced. I do regret how I handled things that day, because I didn't either play along and act eager or just sock him in the nose." Curt swallowed a laugh, and her grin widened. "I do see him differently now – much worse – and I sure did hope he'd accept my apology."

"But Pericles?" He sat down beside Lucinda. "Pericles? That was ludicrous flattery, except that he loved it. Did you just pluck that out of thin air?"

"Not at all. You'd know that better, if you had had my professor for Freshman Ancient History."

"Well, explain it to a lowly pre-med." He headed to the fridge. "Something to drink?"

"No thanks. Anyway, Pericles was the ruler, more or less, of ancient Athens. When Sparta declared war, Pericles came up with an unusual strategy. He wouldn't fight Sparta's army directly on land. They could march into Attica, burn all the crops, destroy the vines and olive trees, but the people would stay hunkered down behind Athens' city walls. Pericles meant to convince Sparta of the futility of war, so that they would end it."

"Oh, Lord." Curt came back with a bottle of water. "And Lew – the parallel, I see it."

"Exactly. Pericles would launch a few naval raids, but that was it. And somehow, Sparta didn't get the message. They kept despoiling the land, and the people kept hiding in Athens. A very crowded, unsanitary Athens. And the plague broke out."

"Ohhh." Curt began quivering with silent laughter.

"The demos got sick of Pericles' strategy, and deposed him from his offices. And the next year, he caught the plague and died." Curt had almost doubled up with mirth. "And after a quarter-century more of terrible warfare, Sparta crushed Athens."

Curt sobered up quickly. "Oh. Wow. I'm glad Lew's not much of a classicist."

"I don't think he'd even see through it if he were. Easier to believe the compliment."

Curt took her hands. "Well, it's the best veiled insult I've ever heard, or at least the best I've understood. You are an impressive woman, Lucinda Peale, and ..." He stopped on the edge of something, hesitated, and stepped back. He let her hands go. "... and I'm glad you're on my side."

Lucinda had that same chance now: to step back from the edge. She hesitated ... and reached for Curt's hand.

"Isn't it time we simplified things?" she breathed.

Curt looked dazed. "Huh?"

She leaned over and kissed him. He wavered, then responded. She pulled away, letting him catch his breath.

"The best kind of deception," she said, "is with the truth."

He digested her words, until dawn broke on his face. It only took her slightest nod for him to reach for her.

IV

It was no use. Josh was gone. So were her resources.

What could he be planning? Was he sending someone? How would she recognize that someone as a friend? Why, why did he have to be so stupid?

She reproached herself the moment she thought that. It was unfair to Josh. But still, why couldn't he have listened?

Lucinda drifted around the parking lot, trying to look like she had a purpose other than loitering. At one point, she stopped near the entrance to read the front page of a newspaper inside a vending machine. But it was a local weekly: no national news, nothing of the upheaval.

The door opened near her. "—course it was them! They did it once before, and got away with it. Why wouldn't they do it again, to Washington?"

Lucinda tried to look inconspicuous, again. "So what do we do?" the other man said.

"Nuke 'em back!"

"But if China's really in on—"

"Hammer them, too! We've got enough."

"You're nuts. They'll – whoa, look out."

Lucinda had pushed past them, not stopping until she reached the far side of the diner. She didn't want to think about this. America had to confront the terrible facts, but it was too much for her right now. She had to calm her breaths, wait out the minutes until—

She heard the rumble, and flattened herself within a shadow along the wall. A truck roared past, heading toward the town. It looked Army. Her grace period was over.

She jogged down to the street, looked both ways, and dashed across. There was an intersecting street several hundred feet down: she'd turn onto that. Pairs of headlights flashed past her, driving out of town.

Then one pair quivered, and steered right at her, horn blaring. Lucinda screamed, and dove away

"Cluster forty-six complete. Moving to the final one."

Lucinda and Curt were almost done with the overlay, or more precisely, the TMS was. They had pre-programmed the trans-cranial magnetic stimulator before entering the operating theater, and were there mostly to supervise its progress. The finely-focused EM fields it produced reached into the patient's brain, repotentiating his neural pathways, changing his mind.

He had been an Internet dissident before he arrived here. However he had gotten the story of the shootout that killed Governor Gandy, her husband, both sons, and at least four Federal agents, his posting and spreading it made his arrival in a place like this inevitable. It was some comfort to Lucinda that there were still such brave people in America, even as he departed their ranks.

The overlay was erasing his tendencies toward violence, mild as they were, and replacing his existing religious mindset with a new "module" in the temporal lobe. It was also adding something to Wernicke's area, on the pretext that his aggressive proclivities extended to use of violent language. That was Lucinda's special addition, the one she and Curt had now made dozens of times.

The program concluded, and an orderly wheeled the patient out. She and Curt shed their somewhat superfluous surgical gowns – the TMS didn't require the slightest incision – and walked out together. The filtered sunlight of an early October dusk beamed upon them through the corridor windows.

Officially, they were "somewhere in western Ohio," at a new facility built up from an abandoned military base. The amenities were more stinting than at Mount Weather, but being able to see the sun compensated greatly. It might be through tinted glass, and half of the buildings' volume might still be underground, but the touch of warmth after seven chill months had reawakened something within Lucinda, and given her hope.

They went down to the mess hall for an early dinner, and briefly had a table to themselves. They filled a few moments with harmless, comfortable talk, before someone arrived to sit with them. Nancy LaPierre had been transferred with her and Curt, unfortunately, but Lucinda had never let her dismay show. "Hello, Nancy," Lucinda said brightly. "What's the trouble?"

LaPierre shifted things around on her tray. "It's just ... disturbing things going on out there. There's a swell of irrational disapproval of the government, over our thought reform work. They're saying – you tell me. Are our outpatients sounding like clones of our President?"

"I don't know," Lucinda said quickly. "I mean, I don't hear him speaking all that much. I'm usually busy with work, or other things."

"The President actually consulted me about this," Curt said. "There's some similarity, but they're talking about the same things he is. There are only so many ways to make equivalent statements. I think it's a statistical coincidence."

"Maybe," said Nancy, sounding unconvinced. "The country's reacting, though. It makes me glad the Secretary of State's undergoing an overlay, to prove its benignity." Her eyes narrowed on Lucinda. "You disapprove?"

"I – well, yes. There's no therapeutic necessity to impinge on a healthy brain. It's bad medicine to intervene without need."

"Secretary Phelps sees a greater need," Curt said. "Besides, I know Dr. Rawlins. She's very good. Nothing untoward will happen."

He laid a hand on Lucinda's shoulder, but she didn't really need the comforting. They both knew Dr. Rawlins was one of them. She had a copy of Burleigh's new brain template in her files off at her facility, and thanks to the messages Curt had slipped through to her, she knew how to use it.

Dinner ran its course, with more mundane subjects discussed. Curt and Lucinda parted at the door and went their separate ways. There wasn't the same clinging desperation here as under the Mount. They could give their relationship, now open, a bit of space.

Lucinda went down two floors, through one of the tunnels linking buildings in their facility, and up a floor to her dorm. The same partitions were there on the same crowded floor, but she didn't have to share this cot with anyone, yet. She had room to herself, to read and to write.

Censorship remained in effect: she still needed to limit what she wrote. She was getting very used to that with Josh.

She still had told him nothing about Curt, save as one of her colleagues. There was no way she could explain it, make it sound right. Perhaps that was because it wasn't right – but she didn't let herself dwell on that.

Several mornings later, she was putting together a template with a newly-arrived technician when she first heard the ruckus outside. The voices in the corridor stopped, but rose up a few minutes later, lasting longer. She and Henry ignored it long enough to finish the template, then emerged to find two guards down the hall talking excitedly.

"What was going on?" Lucinda asked, walking their way.

The larger of the two, a corporal, answered. "The Secretary of State just had his press conference, Doctor. It was ... kind of a fiasco."

The smaller soldier plucked out an earpiece. "Phelps turned parrot," he said, before getting elbowed by the corporal.

"What was he saying? Could I hear?"

"It's over now, ma'am. Sorry." The corporal had regained his stony equipoise.

Lucinda left a flustered Henry to his own devices, and started looking for Curt. After not finding him in a few obvious workplaces, she headed for his quarters, making sure she had her pass. Near the tunnel entrance, she passed a stunned Nancy LaPierre. Lucinda managed not to stare, but she noticed Nancy's head turning slowly to follow her as she passed.

Curt was in his room, and it was the first he had heard of the presser debacle. He had the privilege of a computer in his room, with hobbled Internet access that let him download only, from approved sites. The first news site he checked didn't have the video; the second apparently had just taken it down. The third time was the charm.

They watched Secretary Phelps walk into the press room at the State Department and give his prepared opening statement. He then began taking questions. The first few were puffballs, set-ups to let him say more of what he wanted to. That didn't stop the wheels from coming off.

"No, nothing's been subtracted from my mind. It's been added. And it doesn't feel that strange at all. There's been little effort needed for me to own this new – uh, part of my mind."

Lucinda reached for Curt's hand, clasping it tight.

Having realized what had slipped out of his mouth, Phelps stumbled through his next couple answers. Soon he regained his poise, straightened out – and swerved right back.

"My example is proof that it's not cruel punishment, but a benevolent therapy. For malefactors, it brings them to own their misdeeds, lets them start to repair the—"

Only by the reporters' reactions did he realize he had done it again. He began stumbling anew. The journalists became eager to ask the next question. Their feeding-frenzy instincts began overcoming whatever support they had for Burleigh's actions. They didn't attack outright, but they all wanted to be the one whose question brought the next mistake.

Phelps blundered through several more questions before falling apart. "No," he shot back to a questioner, "the President didn't coerce me, or any other volunteers. We own – uh, our own actions are under our control. Is it s-so hard to believe we'd be acting with honest motives, that we'd believe in something and o-o-o-oh, that's it!" He stormed from the podium, a bedlam of voices chasing him.

Lucinda convulsed with silent laughter, recovering just soon enough for Curt to kiss her. "We did it," she gasped. "We've got a real chance – if they don't suppress this."

"I don't think they can," Curt said. "They promoted it too much; too many people were watching. I think we've hit a tipping point – but we'll keep nudging them."

"Absolutely." She kissed him again, then glanced past him toward the bed. "So, care to celebrate?"

He craned to see his watch. "Not when I'm due somewhere in fifteen minutes. Tonight, though ..."

Lucinda grinned, but a stray thought melted it. "They're going to be suspicious now. They'll be looking for a cause."

"No doubt. Erica Rawlins is in serious trouble." He looked at her. "You want to lay low?"

"I do – but I won't. It's the wrong time to hold back, no matter how scary things may get. I just hope–"

"I know. Me too." Curt held her close, knowing she needed some of his strength that moment. She returned the embrace, in case he needed some strength too.

She left his quarters, got lunch at the mess, and went back to producing templates with Henry. A couple hours into their newest one, her console flashed with an incoming call. She put on headphones and switched it on. "Hello?"

"Lucinda, it's Nancy. We have a new subject coming in for interrogation, and I need help. Monitoring Room 3. Can you come?"

"I'll be there." She switched off. "Surprise break, Henry. I'm being called away. Save our progress and go relax. I'll call you when I'm free again."

She walked over to MR3, noting the soldier guarding the door. The prisoner must be important, to guard the monitoring room on his account. She entered, finding Nancy standing in wait for her. "Okay, who's our—" Only then did she see the screen showing live feed from the scanning room. It was dark.

The door shut behind Lucinda, and by some sense, she knew the guard was on this side of it.

"I should have known much earlier," LaPierre said, her face simmering with hatred. "You were the first to stumble across the effect, five years ago, before I even joined the Berkeley team. Now you're using it to sabotage our work, to subvert the only hope humankind has to finally find peace."

"Nancy, what are you talking—"

LaPierre slapped her face, hard. "Traitor!"

Lucinda cradled her stinging cheek. So much for bluffing her way through.

"I thought you had changed," LaPierre said. "I was so stupid. You're a bloody-minded reactionary, and you were never going to change." An icy smile cut across her face. "Until now."

Lucinda turned to run, hoping somehow to get past the guard. He was already moving, stunner in hand.

When she woke up, she was lying supine and shackled. Bright LED strip lights shone above her, partly shaded by the edge of the MEG scanner looming past her forehead. She heard indistinct voices, and the bed under her back slid her into the machine.

A speaker scratched with brief static. LaPierre's voice came through. "When did you first sabotage an overlay procedure?" Lucinda thought back to the day Curt had her in the scanner. She had spoken without restraint then, because she had no one to protect. This was different. She filled her mind with miscellany: lists of nerves and cerebral structures, prime numbers, old poems. Soon, she didn't even hear what she was being asked.

LaPierre didn't tolerate that for long. A jab in Lucinda's leg brought a cry of pain. Within seconds, she felt the sedative doing its work. She remembered that one patient's terror: it echoed in her mind, doubling and redoubling her own fears. She didn't think to pray like he did, only to fight. And she did. For a while.

After that, she was adrift. LaPierre's words were rocks in a stream, sending her flowing one way or another in the current. She knew they were watching her innermost reactions to names, dates, numbers, extracting the truths she would not speak. She couldn't resist it. She couldn't even think of resisting.

She could do nothing as they drew her out of the scanner, strapped her onto a gurney, and took her by corridor, elevators, and tunnels into some deep place. When they laid her in the dark room, she sank into the cot like liquid finding its level. She couldn't even see the door as it thudded shut, and the locks snapped.

Once her will began trickling back, she looked around the room. It was small and bare, its heavy door pierced by a small head-high grille. She accepted dully that she was in a cell.

Half an hour later, she had enough energy to stand up, take a drink from the sink, and use the toilet. Then she dropped back onto the cot, drained.

She heard rough voices down the corridor. She thought she recognized Curt's baritone, and a fist gripped her heart. She began thinking of what she could do, but it was too painful, for there was nothing to do. She laid herself down, hoping a forgetful sleep would take her. And it did.

Soldiers roused Lucinda out of what felt like a long sleep. Her muzzy mind noted they were retracing yesterday's path into the cellblock. By the time her fear returned, her guards had brought her back to the examination room.

She went back onto the bed, and back into restraints. A moment later, Nancy LaPierre loomed over her. "We got him, of course," she said, with a curious edginess. "He confirmed what we assumed about Rawlins. By now, she's giving up her confederates. You've lost."

Lucinda believed her. So why had it sounded like a lie?

"Will you behave yourself for your base scan?" Lucinda asked.

That was the only reason she could have been brought here: to map out her brain so they could learn how to recreate it in their image. Briefly, the rising dread receded. "Not a chance," Lucinda said.

A cruel smile curdled Lapierre's mouth. "I didn't think so." The hypo went in again, but this time Lucinda didn't cry out. "Put her in."

The session was a repeat of yesterday, only the dosage seemed not as strong. She drifted through the quiet as the MEG read her brain in repose, but she could focus on the questions when LaPierre began asking them. What actions did she want taken against the destroyers of Washington? What did she think of President Burleigh? What did she think of a dozen political issues? Of Christians? Of Muslims? Of progressives? Of right-wingers? Of God? Her mind lay still through all of it, placidly betraying her.

By the time they dumped her back into her cell, the stupor was already fading. Someone had left a tray on the cot, with oatmeal and juice. So it was morning. She set it aside, but minutes later her appetite surfaced, and she quickly devoured breakfast.

There was a shuttered slot at the bottom of the door, one she hadn't noticed before. She left the tray there, out of an instinct for neatness that circumstances somehow didn't suppress. She washed up, then sat on her bunk, thinking.

Finding matches for her brain, creating a therapeutic template from them, and programming a TMS with the template would take several hours. That is, if they were careful and conscientious. They might instead slap together a crude, heavy overlay, not caring what they wiped out in imposing what they demanded of a virtuous mind.

And now true fear came, in great drowning waves.

Lucinda curled up tight on her cot, as though trying to hide from what was coming. She let time flow past unmarked, minutes running into hours. If she didn't count those seconds, she could pretend they weren't drawing her toward her fate.

She heard voices and sounds at intervals. At some point, her empty tray disappeared. At another, she thought briefly she could hear Curt. She thought of crying out to him, but an ache from yesterday's stunning dissuaded her. She listened, but did not hear him again.

Her door snicked again, and she saw a new tray slide inside. Hours had passed – meaning her overlay would be coming that much sooner. She stayed on the cot, having no stomach for her last meal.

There were footsteps, coming close. The door snicked, and its handle jiggled. Lucinda uncurled from her fetal tuck, some deep part of her not wanting to be found that way at the end.

Voices down the corridor called out. The door handle jerked once, and fell still. Footsteps ran away.

Lucinda let out a sobbing breath. By now, the suspense was as much torment as the horror to come. It was several minutes before she thought back, wondering whether that guard had locked the door again before leaving. Maybe, just maybe ...

There were more shouts. Someone ran past, and now she could make him out. "Have them report here. Everyone who will respond! We need to hold the building ..." He turned a corner, and his voice faded. She tried to puzzle out what was happening.

Then she heard the dull, distant thud. Then another. Then a long rattle of gunfire.

The yawning pit already in her stomach turned into a canyon. A fight was breaking out. No, a battle. She pulled her legs back up to her chest.

She detested violence, for itself and for the fear it created. This is what she had striven to fight with neural overlays. This is what President Burleigh told the world he was fighting. Now their mirror-image ambitions had brought it into being, here.

She closed her ears – tried not to hear the shouts down the hall, demanding to know what was happening – tried not to hear the spasms of gunfire, the concussive booms, and the screams that came not from fear, but from agony. She sank into a fugue of trauma, hoping the bloodshed would pass by her door like the last plague of Egypt.

The gunfire sputtered out. Sharp voices rose above thumping bootsteps. The cell door clanged and crashed open, sending the tray's contents flying. A soldier in heavy pack and with a big rifle filled the doorway. Lucinda screamed with all her built-up terror, but only a squeak came out.

"It's okay," the big soldier said. "The cavalry's here."

A semblance of order began to emerge over several hours. It took Lucinda that long to feel like her life was her own again.

First she was in a makeshift triage, helping army medics and some colleagues tend to the wounded from the battle. The numbers were not overwhelming, and thankfully she didn't recognize any of the casualties. Lucinda found it incongruously calming. She was helping to heal again.

Then she was being led back to her dorm for temporary safekeeping. Soldiers walked most of the hallways. A few of them, she knew as guards. They must have changed sides, when there was finally another side to change to. She kept her eyes away from the bullet holes and smashed glass, and the few smears of dark red.

Then she cooled her heels in a dorm about half-full, listening and sometimes talking to colleagues. Some of them were relieved, some frightened. A good number of them weren't there at all. True believers, Lucinda guessed, now filling the cells in the deep basements. At least she hoped they had been captured, not cut down.

She felt a tiny pang of regret for Nancy, incarcerated, perhaps even in the cell Lucinda had occupied. Then she pinched it out like a candle flame.

A few hours later, two soldiers arrived to distribute rations, while another worked at the information booth. After ten minutes, he whistled for attention. "The censorship blocks are disabled at this terminal. You can now e-mail out freely – but one at a time!" His final shout barely slowed the rush to the booth.

Lucinda hung back, taking out her pocket-comp. By the time the line brought her to the front, she had a rambling letter to her parents ready to send. She didn't try to impose order on the jumbled mess of things she had kept bottled up for months, save to write that she loved them and hoped to see them soon.

Writing a shorter letter to Josh took longer. She had to explain her long sojourn in Burleigh's orbit, her inability to say what was happening, her recent alienation. Keeping things out of the letter took even more time. Maybe it was cowardice, but she hoped something would make it unnecessary.

A while later, as she sat on her bunk picking at rations, an officer arrived. "The buildings are now secure," she announced. "We can't let you leave the base yet, but you're free to move around inside. We'll tell you more when we can."

She left, and some of the women trickled after her. Lucinda joined them, eyes peeled. It didn't take very long to spy him, heading toward her dorm. "Curt!"

She had seen him twice briefly after they were freed, but got separated each time. Not now. She dashed over and threw her arms around him. In his arms, she felt the last tremor of fear from the last two days shiver her, and depart.

"So what's happening here?" she asked him.

"Well, I e-mailed the kids, tried to explain what's going on. Hopefully later I—"

"No, about everything. Has Burleigh been deposed? Is it civil war? When can we leave?"

"To the last, not yet," Curt said. "To the others, who knows? Looks like we'll be doing nothing for a while – except celebrating our success." He moved closer for a kiss, but her expression stopped him. "Okay, that came out wrong."

"You're right, it did. So what? Let's go."

In the time she didn't spend with Curt, Lucinda began pulling together the base scans of patients who had passed through the facility. No one had ever had an overlay reversed, and she could only speculate how successful any attempt would be. But it would have to do some good for those poor souls whose minds they – she – had altered against their will. Ethics compelled her to try.

She had most of the data organized within a couple days, ready to go. But there was nowhere to go yet.

News came in through the computers, their filters now removed. The Phelps fiasco had apparently triggered much of the armed forces to rise up against Burleigh. Mount Weather was under siege, its landlines cut and its transmissions jammed. In the rest of the country, Burleigh's subordinates were being rounded up, or fleeing on their own.

Standard news sites were in a state of shock. Much of their news was coming from local reports, the many individual voices that had fallen silent the last eight months. Many of them were jubilant. Many of them sounded ugly. None of them said when anyone could leave this place.

Curt could get no good answers, either. "They keep stonewalling me," he told Lucinda. "I wonder if they still think I'm Lew's close personal friend?"

"No, they can't. Things are just in flux. Half the soldiers here are filling space, with no idea what to do. Two days just isn't long enough to put a whole country back together."

"I guess not." He smirked. "We'll have to give them three."

Near noon on that third day, Curt found Lucinda in the library room, collating brain scans. "We've got a visitor coming, and he wants to see us. Both of us."

"Who?"

"Governor Kendall. He's – I guess he's the President now."

Rance Kendall of Kentucky had lost the Republican nomination, but gotten the VP slot. He had disappeared when Burleigh's crackdown came, and apparently hadn't been worth hunting down. It was an unusual failure of Burleigh's exhaustiveness.

"He'll be here at one," Curt said. "You'll be--?"

"Yes, I'll be ready."

She closed up her work, got a shower in the dorm, and changed into her last remaining clean outfit. Curt joined her outside the dorm just before one. A few minutes later, a sergeant came and asked them to follow him.

They went to the main meeting room, the one with the sole crepe-edged picture of the White House in pale imitation of Mount Weather's Memorial Room. There was no extra guard outside, and the only person waiting inside was a tall, lanky civilian with gray hair and a gray suit. Curt began stammering out a greeting, but Kendall cut him short.

"You must be Dr. Garritty. I'm Rance Kendall. It's an honor to meet you, sir." He stopped pumping Curt's hand and switched to Lucinda. "And you, Dr. Peale. You've both done your country a great service, a historic service. Please, sit down."

Kendall took the head of the table. Curt and Lucinda sat in the first chairs down the right side. Curt said, "This is an unexpected honor, Mist—um, how should I address you, sir?"

"That's a fair question. The rump Republican convention named me the replacement nominee yesterday, and the full convention will confirm that whenever they can meet. That pretty much guarantees my election, even if the Democrats hadn't forfeited their moral right to run after their assaults on us. As for the succession now—" He gave a disarming shrug. "The guilty parties cannot be allowed to hold power through legalisms, and as I'm now the head of the opposition, it falls to me. For now, though, 'sir' is fine."

Lucinda accepted the arguments, disturbed as she was that they needed to be made. She still had a qualm. "What about the army, sir? Seems to me they've been in control for a couple days, here at least."

"They did what was necessary," Kendall said. "They bore having members of their ranks being given the treatment as long as they could, and then they defended the country and the Constitution, as best they could. That done, now they will stand aside. America cannot be perceived as being under military control, must less actually being so. You have my word, Doctor."

Lucinda nodded. Kendall had a superb speaking voice, well-modulated for this intimate talk. He exuded an air of sincerity.

"Now, I've been briefed on the efforts you made to expose Burleigh's infamies, the risks you took, the price you nearly paid. I must say, words cannot contain the gratitude our country owes you. You will receive the appropriate rewards, in time."

"That's very kind, sir," Lucinda said past the rush of pride in her chest, "but if you could see clear to let us go home, that would go very far in satisfying us."

Kendall's smile turned sad. "Would that it were that simple, Dr. Peale. Truth is, we still need your efforts. There remains much work ahead of us."

"I understand that, sir. There are a great many involuntary overlays we need to try to reverse. I'm willing to work on that, but it would be a great deal easier if I could do it back at Cal-Berkeley, back home."

"I'm sorry," said Kendall. "That won't be possible for a while – and no offense, but Berkeley is the last place I'd choose for any part of this undertaking. Not that reversing the overlays is unimportant. There are easily thousands, even tens of thousands of people Burleigh has scarred, and maybe as many as a hundred honestly had it coming. We have to restore them from their mind-wipes as best as possible, but there's also much more we need to do now."

Lucinda hadn't noticed the perpetual knot in her stomach often the last couple months. She only noticed it now, when it returned.

"He diverted masses of resources to his partisan witch-hunt, while ignoring and suppressing facts about Black Friday. I doubt you've heard who was really behind the bombing, but—"

"You mean Iran?" Lucinda said. "And maybe China?" Kendall had briefly gone blank. "I was present for the earliest interrogations."

"So you were," Kendall said. "My mistake. So you know the full magnitude of their misprision, their assault against America instead of her true enemies."

His modulated voice was growing strident. "Burleigh and his crew – his party – have proven themselves an existential threat to America, and to our liberties. That cancer cannot be tolerated. We have to eliminate it, with the self-same method they used in trying to spread it. It's time to change their minds, for the better. And perhaps a great deal more."

Curt finally spoke. "We're going to be doing more overlays?"

"After all those gross abuses?" Lucinda added.

"When neural overlay has been proven so dangerous—"

"That's just the point, Dr. Garritty," Kendall said. "You both must understand, the genie is now out of the bottle. Its power is loose upon the earth, available to whoever will use it as a tool, or a weapon. If we forbear to use this tool until the Democrats regain power – and they will: the wheel always turns – they will use it against us again, on all of America and anywhere else they can reach. By the time they're done, they will have abolished even the possibility of dissent against them.

"With the tool in our hands, we can forestall them. We can fight their absolutism right at the source, keep that nightmare philosophy out of power, perhaps permanently, if we're fortunate. The question now, Doctors, is not 'whether,' but 'who.' Who will benefit from this power, us or them?" He dropped his voice. "It must not be them."

In the silence that followed, Lucinda yet heard a scream, inside her own mind. This was impossible, unthinkable. But no, nothing had started yet. It wasn't too late. She turned to Curt—

--who was slowly, and now more rapidly, nodding his head at Rance Kendall.

"You're right, Mister President. Sad to say."

"It is sad," Kendall said, "but the greatest necessities are usually sad ones." He turned. "Dr. Peale, what say you?"

His eyes transfixed her, pinning her like a butterfly in a collector's case. She drew two short breaths through the pain in her chest. "Mr. Kendall ... sir ... I'm sorry, but I cannot work for you now."

Kendall frowned. "Lucinda—" Curt started.

Lucinda's voice was trembling. "When the agents brought me to Mount Weather, I could see, from the helicopter, Washington still burning a hundred miles away. That's how long Burleigh had me working, without any letup – until four days ago, when it was almost my turn to be 'fixed,' to have my mind wiped. I am ... oh, God, I am so tired. I can't ... I can't ..."

Lucinda was sobbing. Curt reached for her, enfolding her stiff body with his arm.

"... can't start this all over again. No ..."

Curt patted her shoulder with his free hand. "Gov—Mr. Pre—sir, for what it's worth, I will vouch for the terrible pressures Lucinda has endured over the last eight months. Much of that time she was completely alone, everyone around her enemies, no one she could trust. And all that time, she was compelled to perform acts that violated her ethics and conscience." He looked pityingly on her. "Everyone has limits."

"Of course, of course. Dr. Peale?" He waited until Lucinda lifted her eyes. "Doctor, I won't rush your decision. You take whatever time you need. For now, though, you do have those base scans of the overlay victims. I will see that they, and others, are used promptly to restore as many people as possible."

Lucinda nodded jerkily, as she began to recover from her outburst. Kendall reached to shake her hand. Her grip was still weak.

"Thank you again, Dr. Peale, for what you've done and what you've borne." He took Curt's hand. "And you too, Dr. Garritty. I'll have people in contact with you soon." He got up, and by the time the others could stand, he was already leaving, without a trace of ceremony.

Lucinda snuffled and rubbed her face. "I'm sorry I made that scene, Curt."

"It's okay, it's okay." He embraced her again, and still she didn't yield. "A delayed reaction. I don't blame you at all. But please, let me know how to help."

She pulled herself away gently. "I just need some time alone, to pull myself together." She forced a smile. "I'll be better tomorrow, honest."

She headed toward the door, but Curt trailed her. "If what the President said disturbed you, Lucinda, gave you doubts, we really—"

"No, Curt. No doubts. Like I said, I'm terribly tired."

He smiled and nodded. Lucinda kept her own pleasure inside. He believed her, because he wanted to believe her – even though she had told him several times, the best way to hide lies was within truths.

She squeezed his hand at the door, and girded herself to tell him that one unequivocal lie. To her relief, it was easy.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Curt." And she walked away, not looking back.

She rolled into the tall grass, then got onto all fours and started to crawl away. A cry of "Dr. Peale!" stopped her for a second. He seemed familiar ...

"Luci!"

That voice she knew. She scrambled back toward the road, as the passenger door swung open. She dove inside, and had her arms around Josh Muntz in an instant. "Oh God, Josh. So good to see you."

"Oh, Luci, thank God you're safe."

"Not yet, we aren’t." She pulled back, and only then noticed Josh's other passenger. "Sam!"

Sam Jeong was half-reclining in the back seat, to accommodate his braced leg. She reached over the seat back to surprise him with his own hug. "I thought you'd been killed," she said.

"Almost was," said Sam. "And we feared the worst about you, that you'd been—"

"Almost was," she said. Josh was pulling back into traffic. "No, Josh, not west. Turn us around and go north for a couple miles."

As they made their turn in the diner's parking lot, Lucinda saw fresh headlights coming from the direction of the base. She hid herself under the dashboard. "What are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me?"

"We decided to drive cross-country to get you home, after your last e-mail," Josh said. "We thought Burleigh's bullies might still be tapping things, so we didn't say anything, and made sure your parents didn't either."

So that's why she had gotten no replies. "And Sam, where have you been?"

"Hiding out, here and there. I hunkered down with Josh's dad for a few months. We thought the authorities might check your parents' place, and they did."

Lucinda hadn't the luxury to feel outraged that moment. "Where were you thinking of taking me?"

"Ummm ... we hadn't really decided," Josh said. "We meant to collect you and head back to California. Good an idea as any."

"So what's the crisis?" Sam asked. "Are the Democrats getting back in control?"

They were north-bound, and Lucinda sat back up. "Worse, Sam. Kendall, the Republicans, they're intent on doing the same things Burleigh did. Overlaying ideological enemies, eliminating dissent. 'Us or them,' he said right to me, six hours ago. That's when I decided to escape."

Both men said "Oh God," as one. Sam went on. "I can see where Kendall's coming from, but—"

"But nothing!" Josh shouted. "If Lucinda says we're fighting them, we are. So are we?"

Lucinda could not bring herself to look Josh in the eyes. He was so ready to support her, and she had betrayed him. And the man she had betrayed him with – how fast one's feelings could change. How fast a crisis could reveal true character.

How much would Josh's feelings change, when she finally confessed her true character to him? She would do it – once they were off the road, resting for a while – but this moment, she had to lead.

"We're fighting them. I'm not sure how, yet. Maybe we should stop somewhere with Internet access, and get my story out. Or maybe I should get my story composed now, so I'm not trying to hurry and stumbling over words."

"I know who you can contact," Sam said. "Frances Roselli at UCLA. I've gotten secret messages to her a few times. She'll be on your side."

Lucinda chuckled bleakly. Frances had left the Berkeley team early on, because she didn't like the turn toward politics overlay research had taken – a turn facilitated by Lucinda. A whole lot had happened since then.

"I'll write to her," she said. "I'll write to plenty of people. That'll insure word gets around."

"And if that isn't enough?" Josh asked.

Lucinda thought, then laughed again. "Kendall seemed to use the word 'now' very often when he spoke to us. Sauce for the goose."

Sam chuckled in quick, staccato bursts. Josh grinned at the show of confidence. Lucinda smiled for their benefit, even as she considered the odds.

Maybe President Kendall was right. Neural impression might be beyond control, and the only choice left was who would employ it to their ends.

But she wouldn't concede that without a fight.

They drove on, the car turning west toward the last glow of sunset light on the horizon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Last Updated: March 11, 2016.

 

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