“To what?”
“Missile defense. Biodefense. Anything focused on saving lives instead of ending them.”
“Never underestimate the lifesaving power of a fearsome weapon.” Mercer tapped his desk. “It heads off a lot of stupid wars by making your enemies think twice.”
“Yes, but eventually, someone will decide to use it. Sir.”
Mercer considered her. “You’re very good at this work, you know.”
She could barely get her answer out. “I can’t keep doing it.”
“How much time have you spent trying to find a way around the ceiling we keep hitting with every fuel source?”
“On and off for the last year.”
“Give it six more months. Then I’ll see to that transfer.”
“Yes, sir,” she said reluctantly. “Thank you.”
Several more memories of tests—of death—unspooled around her. She had a hard, cold feeling in her stomach, as if the payload stone were lodged there.
Then she woke up one Saturday and realized she’d left her wallet at the office. She went to retrieve it and found atest in progress—one she hadn’t scheduled. The door to the viewing room was locked.
The explosion sounded tremendous.
On instinct, she ran to a bathroom, cast the invisibility spell and retraced her steps in time to see the occupants of the bunker file out: Mercer with an Army officer she didn’t know and—she almost gasped. The vice president of the United States.
“—a workable solution,” the Army man said.
Mercer rubbed the back of his neck, frowning, eyes on Vice President Draden. “Sir ...”
“Yes?”
“I respectfully suggest you reconsider.”
“We need this,” Draden said. “The president has made it very clear that Project 96 is his top priority.”
“But the implications—and not just for weapons?—”
“Canada is working on its own weapons,” the vice president murmured. “So are the Germans and the Japanese. Their research is quite advanced. We can’t afford to pussyfoot around, General.”
“How soon can you get Blackwell working on refining this?” the Army man asked.
“It’ll have to be someone else,” Mercer said. “He’s burnt out.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” The Army man again. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Lost his nerve during the animal trials.”
The vice president’s snort was just like hers, many memories ago. “Did he somehow miss what the weapon does?”
Mercer sighed and followed in the officials’ wake as they walked off down the hallway. “If he ever finds out about this, he’ll be ...”
She couldn’t hear the rest. She stood for a horrible, disjointed moment, brain buzzing, heart thudding. Then she strode the other direction through empty corridors toward the control room, where technicians did the spellwork during official trials. She arrived just in time to see the windowless door open. Two grim-faced wizards Peter had never seen before trudged out, rolling a gurney between them. Something was on it—something covered with a sheet.
One of the men shook his head. “Why exactly did the test subject have to be conscious?”
“Drugs in the system might interfere with the effect,” the other said.
