Robert Ludlum's The Utopia Experiment - By Kyle Mills Page 0,13

success we’ve had in creating a non-pharmaceutical sleep aid that works by manipulating brain waves. Up until now, the machine needed to deliver the therapy’s been about the size of a small car, which has left us in a position where we can only provide inpatient care to people with severe disorders. What we needed was a more practical hardware platform and it turns out that the Merge is perfect. I’m sixty-seven years old and I can tell you that I now sleep like I did when I was twelve.”

Again, Smith took advantage of the other audience members’ obsession with instant communication, and this time it worked. He stood as his distracted seatmates passed the microphone across.

LayerCake immediately tagged him with his name and rank, as well as designating him a medical doctor. For a man who went out of his way to avoid the spotlight, it was a bit disturbing. On the other hand, he was grateful as hell that the judgment system was turned off. That would definitely cross the line into too much information.

“You seem to be able to mentally manipulate the interface’s icons. Could this be used to control artificial limbs? And—kind of unrelated—could the Merge be used to cure blindness?”

“Excellent questions!” Dresner said, sounding genuinely excited that someone was interested in aspects of his invention that didn’t relate to the billions of dollars it would inevitably rake in. “The short answer on eyesight is yes, absolutely. Assuming normal brain function, two small cameras built into a pair of glasses can transmit excellent binocular vision. Of course, we’ll be providing those units free of charge to people in need. With regard to the icons and prosthetics: It’s something we’re working on. Output has proved to be a tougher problem than input, unfortunately. Control of the icons is still fairly rudimentary—opening, closing, scrolling, and simple selection. So this is going to be something that happens, but on a five- or ten-year horizon.”

Hands shot up again, but he waved them off. “Look over the manual and if anything is unclear let us know so we can fix it. Or better yet, buy a Merge next week and try it for yourself.”

7

Khost Province

Afghanistan

YOU! I KNEW IT.”

Randi flashed her most innocent smile as Dr. Peter Mailen squinted menacingly at her.

He’d just celebrated his fiftieth birthday but still looked pretty good, with thick, sandy hair and a mustache that he thought made him look like Magnum PI. That probably also explained the Hawaiian shirt peeking from beneath a canvas apron that had faded to the same color gray as the tile walls, but lacked the scattered bullet holes.

“Took you long enough,” Randi said. “Did they row you over in a dinghy?”

She skirted past a wall of plastic covering a hole made by a mortar round the week before. The goal was to keep the impromptu morgue cool, but it wasn’t working quite well enough to beat back the creeping stench of decay.

“The cargo hold of a plane. Nothing like spending endless hours bouncing around with nothing but ten thousand bottles of water to keep you company.”

She shook her head sympathetically and wandered up to a gurney containing a body covered with a bloodstained sheet. “I specifically told them first class.”

“I’m a doctor, Randi. I work with live people.” He pointed to the tag wrapped around a toe that was starting to darken from the bacteria working on it. “And while I want to be clear that I’m not an expert in this particular area, the guy on this table doesn’t seem to qualify.”

“Come on, Pete. You’re a genius and I trust you to be discreet. That’s why you’re here.”

His expression softened perceptibly. Mailen had always been a sucker for flattery and beautiful blondes—weaknesses Randi had no qualms about exploiting. Besides, it was true. He really was a genius. The fact that he hated doing something he was so good at was just a nasty twist of fate. And not her problem.

“Tell me what you found out and I promise you more legroom on the way home.”

“And a stewardess?”

“Long legs and pouty lips.”

Other than a suspicious frown, he didn’t move—obviously wanting to display a respectable amount of defiance before caving. She’d flashed another sparkling smile and waited for him to decide when honor had been served. It was the least she could do after dragging him from his cushy gig in DC to a crumbling morgue in the middle of nowhere Afghanistan.

They stared at each other for longer than she would have