“Here’s what you need to know in brief,” she said, “since we’re all on borrowed time here. Zane is correct. I’ve been working with Dr. St. John for the last seven years.”
That matched what Dr. Jacobs had hinted at, that perhaps Emerson St. John had colored outside the lines. Interesting. But whatever had compelled him to break the bounds of confidentiality to enlist this woman’s aid, it had clearly not been an objection to the morality of the program. He had, after all, “created” Adam and saved Zane with his invention.
“The contract that St. John and the others are all hoping to win is being offered by a division within the Department of Defense, to greatly simplify a complicated history,” Justine continued. “I’m part of a…competing organization.”
Zane glanced at me. “Department of Homeland Security.”
Justine glared. “I can’t say much about the particular situation,” she said to me, choosing her words with care. “But I’m sure the concept of limited funds, overlapping responsibilities, and competing priorities is one you understand.”
I eyed her speculatively. “A turf war would be the vernacular, I believe.”
She gave me a tight smile. “We prefer to think of it as two strong organizations vying for the opportunity to protect the people of this country in whatever way necessary.”
I shrugged. Either way, it meant the same thing. She was in this because whomever she worked for wanted to screw over the other guys. Maybe it was about protecting people; more likely it was about money or credit or a tweaked ego.
And the Department of Homeland Security, if Zane was right about that, was indeed a separate entity from the Department of Defense, and it didn’t require a stretch of the imagination to believe that they might not always be, what was the saying, two peas in a pod.
It sounded good. Whether it was true remained to be seen.
“They’re interested in using you for strategic military strikes, high-profile targets where anonymity and death by natural causes might be a benefit to them.” She shrugged. “Ordinarily, we would agree. But we think you might have more value as a resource, a tool of sorts instead of a weapon.”
“They have documents, tech—” Zane began.
Justine shot him a dark look for the interruption. “Zane is correct. We have inherited from various other agencies a cache of documents and a warehouse of evidence gathered from a variety of ‘incidents.’” She paused, giving me a significant look. “Particularly the one taking place in a desert around seventy years ago, give or take.”
Wait, was she telling me they had the remains of the ship from Roswell? I felt light-headed suddenly. That was where I’d come from. Well, that was where the DNA donor that Jacobs had used to create me had come from. Supposedly. That ship, or whatever was left of it, might tell me more than I’d ever known about that part of my heritage. Even if it didn’t, just touching it, being in the same room with it, would be more of a connection to those beings than I’d ever had before. It was a gray area, no pun intended, in my life that I’d never thought would be further defined.
And here it was, being offered up with zero fight. Mine for the asking.
I needed to sit. I pulled the seat out across from Justine and collapsed into it.
Zane reached over and grabbed a chair from the table behind us and sat next to me.
“Why?” I asked, my voice cracking.
Justine smiled, a gleam of excitement in her eyes. “We recognize that whatever information can be gleaned from what was left behind might be valuable in the event our…visitors return, not to mention in the further advancement of our own sciences. But the technology appears keyed to their genetic code, a portion St. John wasn’t able to successfully implement with his virus.”
“So Zane and Adam don’t have it,” I said slowly, “but you’re hoping I do.”
“Yes,” Justine said, turning her hands palms up, as if to say, “It’s that simple.” “All you have to do is say yes.”
But looking down at her empty hands, I couldn’t help remembering, from my early “learn to be human” studies, that the handshake had originated as a way of proving that you weren’t holding a weapon. Which only meant that people had to find other ways to hide their intent to harm.
“So, you want to, what, take me away from all of this and stash me in a basement somewhere, surrounding me with stacks of paper and a broken-down spaceship?”
“No,” Justine said. “In exchange for your willing assistance, we’re prepared to offer you a life, free from their overview. You’d be able to live on your own, go to school, if you wish. You’d have a new identity, of course, and a protective detail.”
I fought to keep the shock from showing on my face, the faint pinging of alarm in the back of my head growing louder. Another of my father’s lessons—be careful of someone offering too much and not asking for enough in return. There’s generosity and then there’s sleight of hand. Look at this over here, so you don’t notice what we’re doing over there.