Page 104 of Mastermind

I can’t think like Heywood because, no matter how dark I get, how much wrath I feel, I never see the innocent as pawns. Every life is precious. I only kill to protect life, and even then with conditions.

That’s the line he doesn’t understand.

Or does he?

What if what he’s really afraid of is me learning to cross that line?

Let’s imagine the world again. This time we’re picturing a man named Theo Cray who sees people not as lives to protect, but as objects whose innocence has no meaning or value.

What would the world be like for that Theo? What dark things would he do? What great things could he do?

What holds me back that doesn’t hold back Dark Theo?

If I wanted people’s awe and respect, I wouldn’t need to steal supercomputer time and build a massive neural network to cure disease.

I’d do it myself.

I’d make the world my laboratory. I wouldn’t waste my time tweaking the parameters of a neural network and laboring to find precise data to fine-tune its training. I’d take the most promising ideas in research journals and go straight to human trials. Many would die. Many would also live. I could advance medicine by decades.

All I’d have to do is . . .

I bolt upright out of bed.

That goddamn monster . . .

I pound my fists on the door to my cell and scream, “I have to talk to someone!”

The guards probably think I’m going mad. They don’t realize that this is the clearest my mind has ever been.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

MEMETICS

My desperate attempt to find someone to listen to me didn’t fall on deaf ears. Unfortunately, it fell on the wrong ears. After pounding on my cell door, demanding to talk to someone, I saw Dr. Diane’s face appear on my video screen.

“What’s the emergency?” she asked.

“I need to speak to Agent Blackwood.”

“We can provide you a form to relay a message.”

“No. It has to be now. It’s about Heywood and what he’s been up to,” I added hastily.

“I’ll see if there’s someone who can assist with that.”

Eight hours later, Lagrange and another guard were at my door with the hood. This time I wasn’t taken to another room. I was led down a corridor and into a garage and placed into a van and driven for two hours.

The hood was removed when we neared the processing center for the Stone Creek ADX, a supermax federal prison in Pennsylvania. I breathed a sigh of relief, glad that I’d finally been transferred to a public facility and out of the black-box detention center.

Here I’d have the right to counsel and to send messages. I’d be able to tell Jessica what I realized and what we needed to do to stop Heywood. For the first time, I saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

That light went dark the moment I was handed over to the Stone Creek correctional officers. I was told to lie facedown in the back of the van—I assumed to change my restraints. A moment later, I felt a sharp stab in my neck as a hypodermic needle found a vein.

The man’s face is blurry. He’s sitting on the fixed stool by the metal desk. He has a clipboard in his hands. He’s been talking to me, and I’ve been nodding.

“. . . any violation will result in you losing privileges. Any attempt to communicate with other inmates will also result in punishment. No outside communication without prior approval,” his voice drones.

Drool is sliding out of my mouth. I’m upright and have some control, but I can’t seem to make sentences more complex than yes or no. I’m on a psychoactive I’m unfamiliar with, no doubt courtesy of the same minds that thought up the Death Star.