Drone Command

TWENTY-THREE

You may have lost your privacy, but at least you’re in the Chairman’s Suite now,” Pearce said. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, staring at the bright lights of Tokyo’s bustling business district. He sipped a hot green tea.

“Comped, too. One of the perks of fame. That poor hotel manager was embarrassed that he didn’t recognize me when I checked in.” Myers sat on a large sectional, also enjoying hot tea. The suite was tastefully modern. Very Mad Men, Japanese-style. Glass, stone, wood.

“He’s probably just as concerned about your security. You’ve got the whole floor to yourself — including guards stationed at both ends of the hall.”

“And you,” Myers added.

“I’m not on his payroll.”

“You should be.”

“He couldn’t afford me.”

Pearce fell into the cushions opposite Myers. “You sure you’re okay?”

She smiled, nodded. Her tired eyes said otherwise. “Part of the job description.”

“I must’ve missed that part about you possibly dying.”

“It’s what we agreed to,” Myers insisted. But she was touched at his obvious concern.

“Not exactly. But you pulled it off perfectly.”

“Thank you. I don’t remember much after we went into the library.”

She took another sip of tea. The bionic pancreas was functioning as expected. Not only in her body, but in the worldwide press attention they’d hoped to receive. Now everybody on the planet knew that a bionic pancreas wasn’t nearly as high-tech as it sounded. Clearly, the former American president could never again walk through an airport security scanner without setting off the alarm bells.

She wore on her body two Tandem t: slim insulin pumps connected to separate infusion sets, a Dexcom CGM monitor, an embedded glucose sensor and transmitter that monitored her bloodstream, and an iPhone streaming the data every five minutes, running a patented algorithm that drove dosing decisions. Nearly three hundred times a day, the iPhone broadcast Bluetooth dosing commands to the pumps according to the insulin levels in her bloodstream.

Hardware, software, smartphone, sensors. Myers was loaded for bear. But at least the bionic pancreas had completely automated the monitoring and dosing functions that every other type 1 diabetic had been forced to figure out manually for decades. No more stinging finger pricks for blood samples, no more nasty needles chasing veins. Best of all, no more mistakes or miscalculations that could result in under- or overdosing — the kind of thing that could land a diabetic in the hospital battling a coma or worse.

But both of them knew that in Myers’s case, the overdose wasn’t an accident. After consulting with her endocrinologist, she fasted for twenty-four hours, ate very few carbohydrates before or during Ito’s dinner, injected twice as much “fast” insulin as was normally prescribed, and waited for the inevitable results.

In typical Margaret Myers overachiever fashion, she nearly overdid it. The goal was to pass out. When the ambulance arrived, she was on the edge of a diabetic coma.

Myers reached for her iPhone, didn’t feel it. A momentary panic. She glanced over at the wireless charging pad. Saw it there. Relaxed again.

“When did you learn you were diabetic?” Pearce asked. “Type 1, right?”

“They call mine type 1.5. It falls somewhere between type 1 and type 2. LADA is the official term.”

“Latent autoimmune diabetes of adults,” Pearce said.

“If you already knew the answer, why’d you ask?” Myers said. She was secretly pleased that he’d taken the trouble to do the research, but she played it cool. “That’s what lawyers do when they cross-examine witnesses.”

“It’s rare, isn’t it?”

“Very. I’m just lucky, I guess. I was first diagnosed two years ago. Handled it fine with diet and exercise until my pancreas shut down about a year ago.”

“And here you are.”

“Make lemonade, I always say.” She held his gaze for a moment then turned to her tea, slightly embarrassed.

“Excuse me,” Pearce said. He headed for the restroom.

Myers watched him amble away. His gait was powerful and athletic even at this late hour. Though in his forties, Pearce still had a fantastic physique and excellent health. For the first time since they met, she felt like damaged goods. Her body was letting her down, which only reminded her that he was several years younger. Not that she was vain — she didn’t really think about her age all that much. She’d been strong and healthy since working her father’s cattle ranch as a little girl all the way through high school, along with lettering in three sports. She always ate right, exercised. Never looked her age. Not even now.

She grinned. Okay, maybe she was a little vain. It was hard to imagine a man like Pearce wanting to be physically intimate with an android like her with her pumps and needles and monitors. Not exactly Victoria’s Secret stuff. He’d probably think he was making out with one of his drones.

Her smile faded. She remembered sitting in the doctor’s office two years earlier. The LADA diagnosis hit her hard that morning. She had spent the first few minutes staring at the lab results and feeling sorry for herself. A real pity party. Life wasn’t fair. She had already lost her husband and her son, and now she was losing her health.

And then she realized it was true, life really wasn’t fair, and that she’d had a far better run of good fortune than most, even though most of that luck had been earned through hard work and taking big risks. Her dad had taught her a lot. Life was like a temperamental horse. Discipline worked wonders. But even the best horse still crapped in the barn every now and again. By the time the doctor came back, she had decided to pull up her big-girl panties and get on with it.

Pearce returned and sat back down across from her.

“Nice bathroom. Size of a basketball court,” he said.

“There’s two more of them, should the need arise.”

“We’re certain Feng saw the broadcast,” Pearce said. The androgynous Thai had confirmed it verbally an hour earlier, according to Lane. “Now what?”

“We wait.”

“I hate waiting.” Pearce drummed his fingers on the cushions, thinking. “You ever like a guy who wasn’t paying attention to you?”

Myers fought back a grin. You have no idea.

“Yes. In college, there was someone.”

“How did you get him to pay attention to you?”

“Easy. I ran into his car in the parking lot at the student union. I was driving an old Buick at the time. Did a fair amount of damage, as I recall. I left a note with my name and number.”

“How did that work out for you?”

“Asked me to marry him six weeks later.”

“Your husband?”

She nodded. “He was a really good guy.”

“No doubt.” Pearce smiled. The laugh lines deepened around his dark blue eyes. “So now we just have to find ourselves another Buick.”