Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Susan had to ask, “Is our research really so secret that even a massive explosion, with lives lost, won’t allow us to share it?”

“ Life lost,” Goldman corrected. “Only Payton’s. You told us everyone else survived.”

“More importantly,” Peters added, “bringing up the study would only harm us, our patients, and psychiatry in general. Nothing good could come of it.”

Susan found herself stating the obvious. “But the nanorobots had nothing to do with Payton’s actions.” She stopped herself from tacking on a “Did they?” Scientifically, logically, they could not possibly have played a role.

“Of course not!” Ari said in a tone that implied the mere suggestion was as much blasphemous as stupid.

Peters continued. “But that wouldn’t stop the masses from believing they did. Look at the fuss people kicked up about genetically modified food. Like we hadn’t been genetically modifying plants and animals for as long as humans have existed. Cavemen probably bred the fastest equid stallion to the fastest equid mare to produce even faster offspring. We created Chihuahuas from wolves. Yet, pull in a scientist and mention a lab, and the same process is . . .”

Remembering her dad’s words, Susan finished, “Frankenstein’s monster?”

“Yes!” Cody shouted. “That’s it, exactly. We can pollinate and graft to make seedless grapes, but introduce a strand of fat carrot DNA into a skinny carrot and it’s Frankenstein’s freaking, green-haired, orange monster.”

Despite her ordeal, Susan managed a chuckle.

When Cody Peters started sounding more like his laboratory partner, Susan knew he had a genuinely vital cause. “So I’m not to let people know the Manhattan bus bomber had nanorobots in his cerebrospinal fluid.”

Ari confirmed, “Not on pain of death. I only wish someone had managed to stop him before —”

“The poor guy lost his life?” Peters tried.

“Yes, of course,” Ari said gruffly. “That’s precisely what I was going to say.”

“I’ll bet,” Peters mumbled in the background.

Susan found herself smiling. She enjoyed the way the scientists interacted. “Well, I’m not talking, at least not to anyone who doesn’t already know. But don’t you think proper scientific procedure mandates we make absolutely certain our meddling didn’t have anything to do with . . . what happened?”

Silence followed. Susan had the sudden feeling she had stepped into dangerous territory.

“Our . . . ‘meddling’?” Ari finally said tentatively.

Having brought up the topic, Susan could not back down yet. “In science, we never say never.”

Peters changed the subject. “Hey, we injected that patient you recommended yesterday. What a cutie.”

Susan stiffened. “Sharicka Anson? You injected her?”

Goldman took over. “It was your day off, not ours. We didn’t want to wait, so we dusted off our skills and did it ourselves.”

“She’s an absolute doll,” Peters added. “Are you sure she’s a mental patient?”

Susan rolled her eyes. “The worst kind, Dr. Peters. Antisocial personality. Manipulative, crafty, highly intelligent . . . and a vicious killer.”

Dead silence followed. Clearly, her words shocked both men.

“Did I lose you?”

“No, just surprised us. Well, in a couple of weeks, we should know what makes her tick.”

An explosive mechanism perhaps? Susan kept the sarcasm to herself. “Hopefully, we’ll learn something that can save her. And what’s left of her family.”

“Yeah. So, when ya coming back?”

Susan stretched. “They told me I couldn’t step on the unit for two weeks. They didn’t say anything about the lab, though, so I may be able to sneak back sooner.”

“Well, don’t rush it,” Peters said kindly. “We have enough mental patients in our studies. We don’t need one working for us as well.”

“I’m fine.” Susan tried to reassure them. She did feel all right, rather like she’d had a near miss on the highway: a flash of adrenaline, a moment of terror, then back to normal. She doubted she would forget the ordeal soon, but she did not think it left some sort of terrible and lasting impression on her psyche.

“Good,” Ari said gruffly, though he clearly meant it. “We have three patients ready and waiting. Come back when you can. We’ll see you then.”

“All right.” Susan prepared to disconnect. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” Peters sang out before cutting off the connection.

Susan sat back. She had not slept well. Her head felt stuffy and her eyelids heavy. She was considering dropping back off to sleep, when a soft knock at the door roused her. “Come in, Dad.”

John Calvin poked his head through the crack. “Were you awake?”

“Talking on Vox, in fact.” Susan knew it would upset him to think he had bothered her. “Come on in.”

John slid into the room with a warm smile that could not fully hide his concern. “Are you feeling all right?”

Susan sighed. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? I’m perfectly fine.”

John cocked an eyebrow. “Perfectly?”

“All right, a bit shaken, but otherwise okay. I’m not a paper flower.”

“No.” John Calvin sat on the edge of Susan’s bed. “But you’re my baby, and you almost died. It’s normal to feel rotten after something like that.”

Susan grinned. “Thank you, Dr. Calvin. Would you like to write me a prescription for Muzon now?” She named a popular antianxiety drug.

John laughed. “Very funny.”

“Seriously, Dad.” Susan supposed she ought to feel worse than she did. She had always had a strong personality, but she knew near-death experiences could shake even the most stolid to their core. “I’m fine. I don’t think I really internalized the danger until the actual explosion. By then, it was essentially over.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Susan tipped her head. Do I? She did not feel strongly one way or the other. “Dad, do you know much about the nanorobots your company makes?”

John Calvin’s brows dropped, and his forehead furrowed. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Because, less than a week ago, I injected them into the bomber’s cerebrospinal fluid. He had a head full of nanorobots when he hijacked that bus.”

John Calvin stared. “What?” he finally said, though he had surely heard her. “You knew the hijacker? And he had USR nanorobots in him?”

As she had said exactly that, Susan saw no reason to confirm his questions. “Could there be a connection?”

John’s brows knitted even further. His forehead became a mass of wrinkles. “I can’t imagine one. But I also can’t fathom the odds that the one man who goes utterly bonkers also happens to be one of three or four people with nanorobots in him.”

To her own surprise, Susan took the opposite side. “Well, I’m not sure the odds are all that enormous. Remember, we picked the most hopelessly mentally ill patients in Manhattan for the study. When you realize how sick a man has to be to hijack a bus, I suppose the overlap is obvious.”

“Yes,” John said, but his brows remained in place, his forehead still lined. “How long has this hijacker been hopelessly mentally ill?”

“Years, now. Why?”

“And how many buses has he hijacked?”

Susan chuckled. “Just the one, Dad. It’s tough to blow yourself up twice.” Despite the joke, she recognized the significance of his questioning. She had spent hours researching the same information. “And, no, he had no history of committing prior acts of violence, except just before he got diagnosed. That time, he jumped off the roof of a building.”

“To kill himself?”

Susan supposed confidentiality went by the wayside when a man murdered himself in a public spectacle. “That’s not clear. He claimed he thought he could fly, but he was also plagued by inexplicable hallucinations, worried he was going insane. In the hospital, he expressed the desire to escape, to end it all.” She gave him the condensed version of a convoluted story. “About ten percent of people with . . . his diagnosis commit suicide.”