B E N E D I C T ' S 9
a creative
collaboration

. P A R T . F I V E .

...what is to become of us?

Maria Capriconti was beginning to feel less isolated. Her far-from-fluent English had certainly inhibited her grasp of the entire situation up to the time that Benedict had left the island. But as time passed at Dr. Milton's quiet compound, she realized that she had contributed to her own disconnection. True, her mutation timetable seemed distinctly behind the others, and that had caused her to feel out of touch with the week's developments, but now she realized that she had consciously cut herself off from the others, using the language barrier as an excuse.
. . . . . The congenial Indian woman from Canada, Aurelia Bering, had helped to break the ice. They should have paired off sooner. Maria's French was so much better and she actually took delight in Aurelia's Quebec accent. And they had so much in common, once they compared notes about the Dayton years. Both had been in the area such a short time. Aurelia, while her mother studied nursing, and she, while her father was stationed at Wright Patterson Air Force Base as a liaison to Italian NATO forces. Both had wanted to become biologists. My goodness, their displays had only been a few tables apart at the fair. But, while Aurelia had eventually become a nurse like her mother, Maria had gone on to become one of the most promising microbiologists in Europe. And yet that hadn't presented an impediment to their new friendship. Aurelia may have fallen short of her adolescent dreams, but she had such a stable, generous personality... so rooted in her Native American sensibilities. And she seemed genuinely excited to recall that Maria had placed second to Yates at the fair, honored for her experiments with protista.
. . . . . Now they were walking along the graveled shoreline and when Aurelia spoke softly, but proudly, of her Algonquin heritage, Maria thought of her many years of moving from military base to military base, cut off from her Neapolitan traditions. When she, in turn, talked of her studies in Paris, Brussels, Geneva, and Rome, her friend's eyes shone, as if Maria had gone on to fulfill Aurelia's scientific aspirations as well. Add to that the fact that neither of them had experienced a full-blown dormant state nor been able to define any particular evolutionary capabilities—they were in a small class by themselves and felt comfort in being so far spared the chaotic symptoms of the others. In short, the sudden bond that had formed between the two woman had astonished them both.
. . . . . Vaughn Milton drew on his empty pipe and watched the two out the window of his study. Maria‹tall, slender, darkly attractive. Aurelia‹short, with her steady, purposeful gait. They had become friends, just like Lafayette and Wise. This was good fortune. Benedict needed this luck if he were to succeed in this ambitious, perhaps forlorn, endeavor. The two women climbed the granite staircase to the entrance. They both giggled when they entered the dwelling to discover that most of the men were unconscious, distributed in heaps around the main room.
. . . . . "Amusing when they all crumple at the same time, isn't it?" old Milton had chuckled when they saw him sitting by the fire.
. . . . . "Indeed," Maria responded, still laughing. "What is to become of us?"

* * * * * * * * *

Only moments before, everything had seemed to be perfectly in order. His first class seat on the evening flight to Columbus was purchased. Ed, his attorney had insisted on meeting him at the airport personally. Now a crushing panic was choking the life out of him—his chest felt like molten lead and his head was buzzing with wild, discordant thoughts. Without warning, all of his expectations for the future were in disarray.
. . . . . Oh, sweet mercy, he was dying...
. . . . . Janus Tackett had endured the outrageous developments in Chicago with an aplomb characteristic of his singular genes. Nothing could throw a Tackett off his guard. Actually he couldn't care less if Freeman Benedict's absurd explanations had substance or not. He had every intention of taking it all in stride and exploiting the affluent scientist's offer of material reward. Hadn't he always known he'd be rich some day? What difference did it make if it was a lottery ticket or some fluke resulting from his older brother's participation in that youth fair so many years ago? Beau Tackett had scored a nice Ivy-League scholarship out of that event and was doing quite well for himself. Well, now it was the younger Tackett's turn to climb on top of the heap. By the time the lawsuit was settled, Benedict's paltry offer would be parlayed into a respectable fortune. He'd quit that miserable desk job and move to Manhattan and live just like Beau‹ probably even better. Janus had arrived. Tackett destiny. Pure and simple.
. . . . . Benedict had finally arrived back in Chicago to sign the papers. Most of the others were beside themselves. Typical. They didn't have the Tackett patience. That guy named Kethan Mortice had even flip-flopped and agreed to leave with Benedict to join those other chumps. And then he had to sit through another lecture on the mutation nonsense. This time a distasteful element of pleading had crept into the scientist's voice. Janus doubted that anyone else was perceptive enough to notice. Okay, so the man was more nervous than he first led on. Good. He would buckle that much sooner when faced with going to court. But he hadn't pegged Mortice as a weakling. He'd even considered him as someone to help get a class-action effort going. Well, he looked like a wreck standing there next to Benedict at the final session. Just as well that Janus go this alone. He had that Tackett poise. It was clear that he was the only one who could think on his feet. It was obvious that he had to press on with his master plan.
. . . . . Down a long hazy tube of vision, Janus Tackett could see the man and woman in blue jackets working diligently, but couldn't hear what they were saying. He could only hear his own thoughts. Lucid fragments of reality hopelessly shattered before him.
. . . . . He had to quit that miserable desk job. Tackett destiny. Had to press on with his master plan.
. . . . . With intense effort he focused on the orb. Yes! He must move down the tube and get to the glowing sphere... or was that just the Art Deco light fixture suspended from the ceiling in the lobby of the Winston-Carlton hotel?
. . . . . "Good Lord, he's up there!" Robin Gallagher exclaimed, one hand clutching Benedict's topcoat and the other reaching out for Mosby's bandaged hand.
. . . . . "Not here," Benedict begged. "Hang on. Fight the PDS until we get to the limo.²
. . . . . "No, it's not that!"
. . . . . "Relax, baby. What do you see?" Mosby guided her to a sofa removed from the crowd that was collecting around the man who had collapsed near the elevators.
. . . . . "No... not see. His thoughts. There... up there. Fluctuating. Oh God."
. . . . . "Who?"
. . . . . "That man..." Robin forced herself into composure. She had to control this ability. She must.
. . . . . "The one with the seizure?" Kethan Mortice asked.
. . . . . "Yes. He's trying to coalesce, but he... his thoughts... his energy is... is..."
. . . . . "Attenuating?" Benedict suggested, controlling his own alarm.
. . . . . "Yes!"
. . . . . "Huh?"
. . . . . "Hush, Howard!" She gently put her fingers over his mouth.
. . . . . "I can hear them. The EMTs. They're losing him," Kethan stated, acutely aware now that he was able to separate delicate strands of sound from the din of the large, echoing room.
. . . . . "No... He's already gone."
. . . . . "Are you sure?"
. . . . . "Yes. Dissipated. How awful. I could feel him trying to pull his thought-energy together, but he couldn't discriminate between the essential and unnecessary. So sad..."
. . . . . Benedict put his arm around her. "I'm so sorry, my dear. And yet, I must say, well done.²
. . . . . "I can't believe I just experienced that."
. . . . . "You were extraordinary. An outstanding refinement."
. . . . . "I think I'm going to Œconk,' now. Please get me to the car."
. . . . . The three men moved swiftly, ushering the faltering young woman out the door, just as two paramedics maneuvered an empty stretcher across the sidewalk past them.

* * * * * * * * *

"Unreal, man... I'm in Chris-Craft heaven!" Henri Lafayette had not expected to see the collection of three vintage hardwood classics when he entered the boathouse with Devon Wise.
. . . . . "These must be pretty old."
. . . . . "They're absolute delicacies! Good enough to eat!"
. . . . . "Watch out, now, pal. You probably could!" Devon said with a smile. Henri gave a sputtering laugh and shook his head, still perplexed by the developing mutation that allowed him to swallow and digest without ill effect all manner of odd substances. Only Wise had witnessed some of his more exotic experiments.
. . . . . "Don't change the subject, brother. You're on hallowed ground, or should I say, water?"
. . . . . "So you dig these relics, eh?"
. . . . . "Words fail me. Look at that. A 1932 Custom Runabout. 29-foot, I'd say. 250-horse v-8. Top speed, 45 miles per hour. And feast your eyes on that Racing Runabout. All sixteen sweet feet of her. Model 22. Probably a '39. Almost as fast with the throttle up."
. . . . . "Whoa! You sound like you know what you're talkin' about. How about number three?"
. . . . . "A 1940 Sportsman. Wanna steal her?"
. . . . . "Hell, let's take her down through the Sault and find some babes on Mackinac!"
. . . . . Henri laughed heartily this time and relished the change in Devon's disposition since Dr. B. and the detective had split. Even though nothing had gone wrong since he'd burned Mosby, Devon still preferred to wear the rubber glove on his right hand, but who could blame him?
. . . . . "Now, seriously. What's with the walking encyclopedia bit?"
. . . . . "Seriously, huh?" Henri muttered, still marveling at the beauties bouncing gently around them. "Well, my friend, these gorgeous ladies deserve some serious respect."
. . . . . "You must have grown up around a marina."
. . . . . "Hah! Right... Never laid eyes on one of these princesses Œtil I sold one on a dare... North Shore, summer of Œ75. Jeez, Devon, I could sell anything back in the glory days. Then I learned to restore Œem. Can't believe they ever let me touch one. Got to where those dudes didn't want anyone but me to lay a hand on their baby. Imagine that. That's when Todd and me would add a little cargo to the ones heading down to the lower lakes. Who would have suspected those cats? Hell, they owned half the Loop. But then good ol' Cleveland Bobby got greedy. Had to walk away from my precious damsels. But you want to know something, Dev? Don't think I ever saw a Chris half as beautiful as one of these right here..."
. . . . . Wise didn't want to disturb his friend's reverie, but he saw the figure out of the corner of his eye and nudged Henri.
. . . . . "Off limits, gentlemen. Mosby's directive."
. . . . . "We're cool. We're cool. Just looking. No touchie-feelie."
. . . . . Now this guy was a drag, Henri thought. At least the gum shoe had a little style about him, but this character must crap brass cartridges. Pilot-slash-prison guard? What did Mosby do, run a classified in Soldier of Fortune?
. . . . . "I understand the professors have a great deal invested in these items. They're not to be disturbed. Why don't you go back up to the cabin?"
. . . . . "Roger... Say, how's that wing strut comin'?"
. . . . . "Uh... sorry. Need to know basis. I'm strongly suggesting you leave these premises."
. . . . . "Why don't you just leave us alone, Henshaw." Devon had stepped abruptly in front of Henri. "Lordy, Lordy," the black man repeated to himself silently as a low crackle could be heard under the glove.
. . . . . "He has his orders, Dev Ol' Buddy. Let's check on lunch, eh?" Henri made a chopping sound with his teeth and did a little dance with his eyebrows. It worked. Devon cracked a smile.
. . . . . You gotta work on that temper, brother. You gotta work on that temper...

* * * * * * * * *

Jacob Fossett Yates hadn't felt this nervous in a long, long time. Maybe it went back to that morning long ago when he discovered someone had taken a crowbar to the door of the Westock lab while he was attending his grandfather's funeral. Yes, that was it. Before he'd hired Raker O'Cull. Nothing since‹lawsuits, market disappointments, scientific dead ends, more lawsuits‹had phased him like that early realization that the business world was a battlefield, and if he ever expected to reach his goals he needed to have a plan to protect his inheritance and achievements from the unscrupulous. He'd been lucky to find O'Cull. The former Green Beret was one of his greatest assets. Thorough, innovative, meticulously honest. The contribution Raker had made to his ability to focus on his work was incalculable. The Chief of Security was a corporate treasure.
. . . . . Maybe Benedict felt the same way about Mo, but he doubted it. Maybe Mo was as dedicated to Benedict's scheme as Raker was to Westock Microcomputing—that was probably more like it it. Like Raker, Mo seemed to have a way of cutting to core when it was required. After that series of weak rationales‹and he had exposed every one‹Benedict had given up on convincing him to remain on the island with the rest. Then Mo had finally stepped in to say, "Look, Yates. You're a pilot. We need you here just in case something would happen to Henshaw." Yates knew Mosby meant every word of it and he conceded, even though he'd had about enough of the climate of paranoia. And he had to admit that, for whatever reason, it bothered him to see Robin get on the other plane with them.
. . . . . It was only a matter of hours before he saw the clue on the beach.
. . . . . Unmistakable. It was the symbol he'd created himself to code secret information within his R&D group. The way it was fashioned out of pebbles and driftwood... only he could have distinguished it from a random pattern of shore debris. That night he made himself available for contact, now that he realized O'Cull was on the island. He didn't know whether to be angry or frightened. Sure enough, he heard a soft whisper from the shadows near the stone terrace after sunset.
. . . . . "This better be good," Yates answered.
. . . . . It wasn't. He couldn't even recall exactly what his aide had said, only that his wretched head gland had gone off like an an old-style alarm clock with a double bell.
. . . . . "Blast it, O'Cull. Now is not the time to start lying to me!"
. . . . . He'd almost raised his voice.
. . . . . "That's not it, sir. I... I guess I'm just withholding information that I can't confirm. Hunches... I have to say they're driving me crazy. Look at me! Crawling around like a kid... like I'm back in Viet Nam. Nobody minding the store in Houston. Having to track you down like there'd been an abduction! By God, you haven't been kidnapped, have you?"
. . . . . "Heavens, no! I can't tell you yet why I'm here. You just tell me why you're here! And give it all to me. Speculate if you have to. I need to hear about what set you in motion. And make it fast."
. . . . . "Okay, here goes..." Even as the security man quickly delineated each factor that had convinced him to follow the trail to the Canadian sanctuary, his superior was in awe of his decisiveness and powers of deduction. And nobody could brief him like O'Cull, Yates recognized. The whole thing would have been a wonderful, stimulating exercise, reinforcing all the confidence he had in his chief, had it not been for the startling things O'Cull was saying. And, although it was clear that O'Cull himself was sure he was way out on a limb, Yates knew with his newfound certainty that every word was true. Alarmingly true.
. . . . . "It doesn't really add up, sir, but my gut tells me they're spooks. Don't ask me why they're interested in this, but... but..."
. . . . . "Don't ask me how I know, but I'm sure you're right."
. . . . . "But I'll be damned if I can't tell which side they're on! They're that good, sir. By God they are!"
. . . . . "Relax, Raker." He couldn't believe he'd said the words. And that's when he'd gotten nervous.

Part Six

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