MIND FIELDS Read online

  Sean Lightbourne was not only a good research scientist, but he was an easy person to have around. Paul soon came to realize that he was glad for the camaraderie Sean could provide. It wasn’t long before the two became good friends and were talking about more than work. It was Sean who finally helped Paul deal with his loss; Sean was the first person he could really talk to about Sandi. Once the barrier was broken, Paul found it cathartic. He talked about Sandi frequently, sometimes about their relationship, but often just about Sandi. He talked about her favorite hangouts, the kind of movies she liked, silly observations that she used to make about even the most mundane things. He talked about the things that made her Sandi. One day, when he caught himself rambling on, he even joked that Sean probably knew her better than he knew any of his own girlfriends. Sean just nodded and laughed. He was a good sport.

  ___

  Halloween was JT Anderson’s favorite holiday. He always said that no one can take themselves too seriously while they’re wearing a ridiculous costume; it was an occasion that he liked to use to see what his associates were really like – deep down inside. As was the custom, the party was held at JT’s estate.

  A short drive from BNI, JT had chosen his fifteen-acre parcel of land carefully. The rolling hills created the perfect landscape for his stone mansion, with plenty of room left over for a tennis court, driving range and putting green. JT never liked to be idle. The grounds were fenced in and monitored by the latest in electronic surveillance to assure absolute privacy for JT and whichever fashion model was his live-in mate at the time. For the past year and a half, it had been Wanda Slate, or as most men knew her, Miss July, 2048. Wanda made the most magnificent witch in her low-cut black dress, slit up the side just enough to reveal her fishnet stockings when a breeze blew by. Somehow, she looked very natural with black lipstick, a white streak in her hair and a straw broom in her hand. JT had made sure to have her around at least until the Halloween party this year.

  It was a crisp autumn night in the Maryland countryside, and the multi-colored leaves that dotted the hillsides of the estate only served to enhance the decorations. JT went all out for Halloween, and for a man of his means, that was considerable. From the moment the guests entered through the front gate, the mood was set. A range of realistic gravestones irregularly arranged along the side of the quarter-mile driveway became more numerous as one approached the mansion. They were engraved with quirky, clever inscriptions, though no one ever stopped to read them.

  Floodlights splashed an orange glow against the outside walls of the mansion, and robotic bats flew around the front entry, squawking warnings in very unrealistic bat voices. A valet helped the guests unload, and then took the cars out to a back lot so the vehicles would not disturb the mood of the night. As each new victim would step up on the front patio from the driveway, a mummy popped up from the garden with a howl. It was mostly amusing, but the occasional shriek from an unsuspecting guest new to the Anderson Halloween tradition enthralled JT each time he heard it.

  The butler who answered the front door was indistinguishable from the guests, although his costume was not a costume to him. He greeted each guest and took the coats from those who had them, mostly the women who had the physical assets to wear the fashionably scant garb of the holiday. Belly dancers, miniskirted roaring twenties gals, Elviras and genies were the most popular. The experienced partygoers knew better than to compete with the witch of the house; it was tough to top Miss July.

  Paul Hingston was not much of a party animal. He reluctantly donned his rented Robin Hood costume and picked up his date for the evening, a secretary at BNI named Pauline Harris. Pauline was no Miss July, but that didn’t matter in the least to Paul. They were good friends and merely accompanied each other out of convenience. Neither had a steady “significant other,” and neither felt comfortable enough in their obligatory silly outfits to bring a date. Pauline had threatened to come dressed as a secretary. Paul said that if she dared do that, he’d do the same. She decided that she couldn’t stomach seeing Paul in a dress, so Maid Marion would have to do. They sauntered hesitantly through the front door, no threat of being mistaken for the swashbucklers that they feigned to portray.

  Paul went to the bar to get drinks for the two of them while Maid Marion stopped to talk to a group of ghouls. As he passed the French doors leading out to the expansive patio surrounding the lagoon-style pool, he couldn’t help but notice the two lone figures braving the cool night air while the rest of the guests crowded the well-decorated inner quarters. One of the men was dressed as Sir Lancelot, and was unmistakably Sean Lightbourne. The other, a white-wigged American patriot, looked so familiar…. Paul was about to knock on the glass to get Sean’s attention, when he noticed that the two were in a rather heated discussion. He briefly considered braving the long line at the bar, but curiosity got the better of him.

  The French doors were ajar, and with a gentle push, Paul and the party music came pouring out the door together. The noise startled the men out of whatever it was they had been so passionately discussing.

  “Paul,” Sean called, obviously caught off guard. “Uh…come here, let me introduce you to Senator Russell Stetson.”

  “Ah, I knew you looked familiar.”

  “Wig didn’t fool you, huh?” Stetson laughed mechanically like a true politician.

  “Just a little, Senator.”

  “Call me Russ, please.”

  “OK…Russ, nice to meet you.” Paul extended his hand. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other. What did I interrupt? It looked pretty intense.”

  “Ah,” Sean said with a flip of his hand, “just politics…you know. I recognized the senator and just couldn’t resist putting in a plug for nanobot therapy. He’s on the Senate Subcommittee on Nanotechnology, you know.”

  “Uh, yeah, Sean. I kind of keep up on that nanobot stuff.”

  Sean laughed nervously, realizing that it had been a rather stupid comment. He and Paul had often talked about the influence the subcommittee would have over the practical use of their work. “Well, in spite of what you’ve heard, he seems OK to me.” The three men shared a half-hearted laugh.

  Paul thought the whole thing was rather strange, but decided to let it rest. “Well, the Maid Marion’s waiting for her whiskey sour. I dare not disappoint. Nice meeting you, Russ.”

  “Likewise, Paul. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

  Paul nodded and smiled, then went back into the warmth of the house. Sean Lightbourne and Russell Stetson watched until he was safely inside.

  “What do you think he’s up too, Sean?”

  “Ah, nothin’.” Sean shrugged his shoulders. “Paul’s a good guy, not the sort to look for trouble.”

  “Well, he looked a bit odd to me, like something was on his mind that he didn’t want us to know about.”

  “Nah. Paul’s a real up-front kind of guy. The only thing on his mind tonight is how quickly he can make a graceful exit from this party. He’s a jeans and T-shirt man, definitely not the Robin Hood Men in Tights type. I’ll bet the lovely Maid Marion talked him into that one.”

  The two men laughed. They turned toward the pool as the sound of a brightly colored array of lighted waterspouts leaped from the rock wall at the far side of the patio, and splashed down into the pool.

  “God. That’s ostentatious even for JT,” Senator Stetson muttered.

  “Yeah, but it sure is pretty.”

  They sipped on their hot spiced cider, cupping the kiln-fired mugs to keep warm.

  ___

  Paul thanked the bartender and picked up the two glasses, a whiskey sour for the lady, Scotch on the rocks for the king of thieves. Just as he was about to turn away, he felt a slap on the back.

  “So, how’s my loyal subject this fine All Hallow’s Eve.” The greeting was followed by a hearty belly laugh, meant to be very r
egal but sounding more like Santa Claus after one-too-many eggnogs.

  He struggled to keep the drinks from spilling onto his expensive rental costume as he turned to see where the greeting had originated. JT made one of the gawkiest Henry the Eighths that one could ever imagine. His six-foot three, one hundred and sixty pound frame made a mockery of a very fine costume. A bulimic Henry the Eighth, was the only thought that came to Paul’s mind as he saw the awkward sight. He bit his lip and noticed that he was not the only one struggling to avoid laughing at the boss.

  “Uh, great costume, JT,” was about all he could muster up.

  “You really think so?”

  Just as Paul was about to open his mouth, JT mercifully interrupted him. “No, don’t answer that. I know I look ridiculous, but what the hell, so do most of the people in here. I just love to see their expressions when I ask them how I look. Actually, I preferred the Superman costume …”

  That goes without saying, Paul thought.

  “…but Superman looked pretty ridiculous standing next to Witch Wanda.”

  “I don’t know,” Paul asked, “which Wanda?”

  That stopped JT in mid-thought. After a brief pause, he caught on to Paul’s dry humor. “Oh …Oh, I get it. Good one, Robin.” He laughed that stupid laugh again, but Paul didn’t even crack a smile. Uncomfortably, JT perused the crowd. “Well, I must be off. Got to mingle with my subjects, you know.” He darted into the crowd.

  Pauline had worked her way over just in time to overhear Paul’s joke. “It’s not usually too wise to mess with the boss’s head.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He handed her the whiskey sour. “But that was just too easy. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Well,” she said, looking him over after a deep swig of her drink, “I gotta admit, you look a hell of a lot better in those tights than King Icabod looks in those robes.”

  Paul cleared his throat and hoped that the flush in his cheeks was lost in the ambiance of the room. “Shall we check out the decorations, my lady?” He motioned to the darkened living room, from which some ghoulish music was emanating. He hoped she would agree to leave before the band started in with the dance music out by the pool. The only thing worse than dancing was dancing to The Monster Mash.

  “Ohh, trying to get me into the dark, eh Robin Hood?” she said seductively.

  Yeah, where I can’t see you. He smiled meekly and led her into the living room. Paul hated office romances. The main reason he chose to come here with Pauline was because he knew that with her, he would not be tempted. He felt bad, but he ditched her at the first turn into the darkness. He knew that he would feel worse if she had tried to feel him, which he could sense was only a few more sips of whiskey away.

  Thankfully, the evening passed quickly. He managed to avoid dancing as well as any uncomfortable moments of solitude with the Maid Marion. By the time they left, she was too drunk to care anymore. He knew she wouldn’t remember too much of this in the morning, and was thankful that their office friendship would remain intact.

  Paul was glad to get home. A pair of running pants, which he kept in his car, was very effective at concealing his green tights, and his trench coat covered the rest of the ensemble. He was able to get from the parking lot at Poe Towers up to his apartment without the embarrassment of any more jokes about his legs. Thankfully, he had survived another Halloween.

  Chapter seven

  November 19, 2050

  Rocky Stankowski liked gentlemen’s clubs. He wasn’t too sure why they called them gentlemen’s clubs really; he had never seen what he would call a gentleman in one of them. Never the less, he liked them, and so Saturday night would usually find him down at the Block in Baltimore. Rocky lived and worked in Washington, but the Block was the place to go if you liked gentlemen’s clubs. Besides, for a guy with a respectable job like his, Rocky had found that it was best to keep his club hopping as far away from his job as possible.

  It was a chilly Saturday night with the wind whipping up the Fallsway from the Inner Harbor. Rocky had had to take Harold Bradley, the White House chief of staff, out to Camp David that afternoon, but he had the rest of the weekend off. He had been Mr. Bradley’s chauffeur for almost two years now. His military background and squeaky-clean driving record had won him the job. His personality had kept it for him. Rocky was a quiet sort, but not afraid to speak his mind when he found it necessary. Mr. Bradley liked the solitude of sitting in a car driven by Rocky Stankowski, and he appreciated even more the rare instance when Rocky would give him the working-man’s view on an issue that the political elite seemed to overlook. It didn’t happen often, but when Rocky spoke, it usually resulted in helping the chief of staff to avoid finding new trouble. There was no shortage of trouble at the White House these days.

  Rocky dropped off Mr. Bradley at about four o’clock that afternoon. Once his task was completed, he figured that he might as well indulge himself. He arrived in downtown Baltimore at about six. The days were getting short, and it was already dark by the time he parked the car on Holliday Street.

  Belle’s Place was his favorite hangout. It was kind of quiet for a gentlemen’s club, but not too elitist. The guys in there were working class stiffs like him, but by and large, they were good men who were just looking to escape their lives for a while. Belle’s girls weren’t the high-priced, best-that-surgery-can-create type, but they were still pretty classy. They were the kind of women whose company Rocky liked to be in with or without their clothes on, but he preferred without.

  He braced himself against the breeze and wrapped his coat tightly around his body. Belle recognized him as soon as he came through the door.

  “Hey, Rock, good to see ya, hon.” She helped him off with his coat. “Getting a little nippy, huh?”

  “Cold as a witch’s tit out there tonight, Belle.”

  She hung his coat on the rack. “Come on, I’ll get you some hot coffee. A little Irish Whiskey in it?”

  “Sounds good, Belle. Thanks”

  She led him over to a stage-front table by the walkway that the girls were prancing down. It was a quiet night, and he was glad to sit alone. He didn’t notice the three men who entered just after he did. They were newcomers, and Belle didn’t give them a second thought. She sat them at a table across the stage from Rocky.

  The show began, and Rocky sat back, sipping his Irish coffee and enjoying the view. The three men across the stage were just faded images amongst the wisps of smoke that filled the room, and they blended into the sparse crowd. The music was sultry jazz, and the smell of tobacco and perfume intoxicated Rocky more than the liquor. He was engrossed in the gyrations of the young lady on stage; everything else in the room was just part of the haze. During working hours, Rocky noticed everything, but while at Belle’s he liked to shut the world out, as if there were only him and the girl on the stage. He never noticed the three men, but they noticed him.

  As usual, Rocky didn’t drink much that night. Even when off duty, one drink was his limit. He liked his job too much to risk losing his license over something as stupid as a drunk-driving bust. It would be a long drive back to Washington that night, and after the first coffee, Rocky took it straight, without the whiskey.

  The evening passed quickly. Belle’s Place had worked its magic once again, and by midnight, a week’s worth of stress had melted away. He called Belle over.

  “Leavin’ already, hon?”

  “Fraid so, Belle. It’s been a long day.” He didn’t like to say too much about himself around here, not even to Belle. Not too many of the guys did, for obvious reasons. Belle even figured that name, Rocky, had to be made up, but she didn’t mind a bit. Rocky was always a gentleman and always paid in cash.

  “Don’t be a stranger now, Rocky.” She winked as she handed him his coat.

  He gave her a kiss on the cheek and headed out the
door, bracing himself against the cold night air. The icy wind slapped against his face, and he tucked his chin down as he walked toward the car. He didn’t notice the three men who scrambled for their coats and exited Belle’s just after him.

  The last thing that he could remember when he awakened in the ER was that he had been sitting in Belle’s Place, enjoying the show.

  “Christ! This guy’s got White House clearance. Look at his ID card.”

  Rocky awakened in a bit of a fog. He saw two men in white coats standing over him. One of them was holding his wallet and showing it to the other.

  He tried to sit up and grab it. “Ahh,” he yelped as he plunked back down to the gurney grabbing his head. He felt the warm, sticky blood oozing from the left side of his skull, and looked at his hand in disbelief as he pulled it away, covered in red.

  “Whoa there, big fella. Hold still.” The two men in the white coats reached down and restrained his arms. “Just lay still, we’re gonna get you some help.”

  Rocky wasn’t quite sure what they were saying, but he didn’t like being held down. He struggled to pull free, but his usually powerful arms were like Jello at his side. “Let … me … go!” he shouted, as he tried once more to break free.

  “Five milligrams of Valium IV push, stat!” was the last thing he heard.

  Chapter eight

  Russell Stetson, the senator from Maryland, had served for the past nine years on the Senate Subcommittee on Nanotechnology. The committee had been formed shortly after he won the election for his first term. It had been placed under the direction of a senior senator from Connecticut, Stanton Cole. Cole was one of the Senate’s old-timers. Having served in the Senate for eighteen years as a levelheaded moderate, he had the respect of the leaders of both parties. When nanotechnology rose to the forefront of clinical medicine, the committee had been organized to deal with the inevitable ethical issues that would concern the public. Nanotechnology would enable physicians to alter the human body in ways never known before. Not since the arguments involving cloning had a new technology raised so much controversy. At what point would a body full of nanobots cease to be human? Would a body that had most of its organs replaced or augmented by miniature internal machines become a machine at some point?