Chapter Seven - Invisible think tank.

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Jack entered his apartment, which resembled a suite in a five-star hotel, or at least what they looked like in movies. Truth was it was better appointed than any hotel he'd ever stayed in. Why had they gone to all this trouble? The opportunity of a lifetime had nothing to do with thread-count.

One room seemed particularly out of place. The strange compartment was portioned off with thick glass walls rising to the ceiling, parted only by a narrow gap to facilitate entry. Jack's shoulders were broad, and as he sidestepped through the entry, claustrophobia threatened.The translucence of the cell-like room fell into the CIRAS category of creepy-cool.Would he feel like a monitored lab rat, working within its confines? His jaw clenched against the notion.

Looking around the cell, he saw an L-shaped table bearing two identical tabletop workstations occupying most of the space. Each included a micro-thin computer monitor secured to a console and a permanently fixed tablet with an electronic pen. Jack searched for a power button on both but couldn't find one.

He plunked himself down in front of the left-side console to continue his search. As soon as his rear contacted the chair, the computer powered up.

A disembodied voice welcomed him. "Good Evening, Dr. Kerwin. May I call you Jack?"

"Huh?" Jack startled then figured it out. "Sure. What the hell should I call you?"

"Whatever you wish."

Jack considered briefly then said in a British accent, "How about I call you Computer?" Just like Captain Picard from the Starship Enterprise. He smiled to himself. It was childish and more than a little nerdy, but he couldn't help himself.

"That will do," the voice responded without humor. "I see that you have received a communication. Would you like me to read the document out loud, or shall I simply display it on the screen?"

Jack sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Um, how about both?"

"Of course."

Jack listened to the electronic voice and glanced up periodically at the displayed text. Not much of the information was new to him. CIRAS had been quite clear that there would be many guidelines–i.e., restrictions–which he would have to follow if he was accepted into its program. He hadn't hesitated to agree, as the opportunity far outweighed the inconvenience created by the neurotic possessiveness of the center. Jack was barely paying attention when something the computer said jarred him out of his boredom. He focused on the screen, brows knitted, and read:

Protocol Regarding Interaction With Tabula Rasa

"Can you repeat what you just said?"

"The Tabula Rasa component you will be paired with will have all its work displayed on the computer and tablet to your right. There will be a continual flow of their findings and recommendations on that computer. But you can always scroll up or down to access any part of the TR data."

"Okay." That seemed pretty straightforward. "When is our first meeting?"

"There will be no meetings."

"What?"

"Tabula Rasa members prefer digital-only interaction, but what they lack in social skills is offset by their prowess with problem solving."

"What the hell! Sometimes I'm going to need to talk face-to-face. There are times it's the only way to hash through problems."

"That's not possible."

"Why not?"

"As I've stated, they prefer digital interaction–"

He heard the tightness in his voice. "I've never done research where you can't actually talk to other human beings."

"There's a first time for everything."

"Screw you," Jack screamed, instantly feeling ridiculous. Computer, was a computer, after all. "Sorry, goodnight." Equally stupid.

"Goodnight, Dr. Kerwin."

* * *

Jack brought up the document and fixed his vision on the monitor. He was paying attention now, his interest piqued by suspicion and anger.

Should you choose not to abide by these guidelines and make public, in any manner, this private knowledge, CIRAS retains the means to prevent your involvement in further research within the United States and with prominent partner facilities internationally.

Jack reread the last statement to make sure he had it right. They threatened to blackball him.
He continued reading.

Should you sign the agreement and later violate its terms, CIRAS will reclaim its ownership of all scholarship conducted at its facility and repossess all subsequent research based on Tabula Rasa findings. CIRAS will employ any means necessary to do so.

Betray us and you will die a slow, painful academic death. And oh, by the way, you will never work again. Great. He read more, but it was just more inventive ways of saying the same thing. And something about every session  in the "office" being recorded

His body vibrated with resentment as he examined every inch of the space, looking for any type of recording device. He found nothing. Did you think they would be out here in the open for you to find? This is so messed up . . .

Jack stopped as he realized that according to this fucking agreement even his auto-conversation would be recorded. He felt tricked–used. He hadn't felt that way since a professor in one of his graduate courses had claimed Jack's work as his own. He had already accepted that he would be observed while he was at CIRAS, but he now had to consider that he might have no privacy at all for a year.

Jack closed his eyes and took long, slow breaths, using a technique his sensei had taught him. New, unwelcome thoughts piggybacked his exhalations and powered their way into his consciousness. Do you actually care what you have to go through to find this cure? What about the other children who have the same disease that Jeremy died from? You might be able to save them and their families from so much pain.

He would sign the agreement.

Paranoid or not, Scott Maxwell ran the best research facility in the world. Nobody would pass up the chance to come here. And nobody did. If some previous invitee had already revealed CIRAS's dark side–whatever it was–the entire academic community would know in the time it took a particle of light to circle the Earth.

Jack took in yet another deep breath and allowed his burgeoning resentment to deflate. If Maxwell wanted to play his little control games, Jack would try to pretend he wasn't bothered by it.

It wasn't like anyone was getting hurt.

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