Brain Storm by Richard Sapir, Warren Murphy Page B

off the charts. Some rogue spark had just caused him to destroy a piece of furniture. Who knew what he'd go after next?
    "Why haven't you gotten a lock yet?" Newton demanded of his panicking staff.
    "He's resisting."
    Newton shook his head. "Impossible." Newton, who had been acting in a supervisory capacity, pushed one of the technicians away from his terminal and dropped into the vacant seat. And immediately saw a problem. "Your readings are wrong," he said, indicating the neural monitors. "Your nervous-system model is shot," he said, waving toward the monitor. "These axons and dendrites aren't even from a human."
    "Yes, they are," one of the scientists insisted. "I triple-checked. They've been reconfigured somehow.
    The interface program is having a hell of a time trying to adjust to the new system pattern."
    "Afferent indicators are negative," a technician piped up.
    "Shh! Shh!" one of the men hissed. He cocked an ear toward the speaker that connected the back of the van via a special radio signal to the headset of Lothar Holz. "He's still speaking!" the man said, incredulous.

    Newton's face was severe. "He shouldn't have hypoglossal control at this point."
    The scientists collectively shrugged or shook their heads in confusion. They redoubled their efforts.
    An instant later, there was another crash from the office speaker.
    In the back of the van, Dr. Curt Newton froze. He prayed that nothing had happened to his mentor. For without Holz, the money flow for the Dynamic Interface System would trickle to a stop. With wary eyes, he turned toward the heat-sensing apparatus.
    The chair holz had been sitting in shuddered as if from some unseen inner force, then collapsed into a shattered lump on the threadbare carpeting. There was nothing left to indicate that the pile of splinters had been, until a few seconds before, a rather worn and uninviting office chair.
    In a lightning-fast flash, Remo's hand returned to his side.
    "Control your man, Smith!"
    Holz looked clearly terrified. His unflappable facade had given way to a look of sheer horror as Remo, struggling to fight the interface signal, slowly advanced.
    Smith kept his expression bland. He dared not allow Remo's unexpected resistance to raise any visible signs of hope. If Remo was able to battle the signal and take care of Lothar Holz, then perhaps this situation could be rectified quickly. But there was still the matter of the white van out in the parking lot. "Master of Sinanju, I meant you no harm," Holz cried out as Remo closed in.
    Remo managed a puzzled frown. Master of Sinanju? What was he talking about?
    Remo wanted to ask, wanted to put the question to Smith.
    But it had become too much of an effort to speak.
    He would take care of Holz first.
    Remo's deep-set eyes were focused on his target, but he still moved in an awkward, stilted manner. He was battling a nervous system that had for years obeyed his every move and now felt sluggish and unresponsive. The itchiness inside his skull was a constant irritant.
    His ears rang dully.
    But he had Holz. The man cowered like a frightened, craven dog before him. He would finish him with a simple blow. Nothing fancy. Then he'd find out from Smith what the hell was going on.
    But the blow he planned had a mind of its own.
    To Remo's surprise, his hand slashed out automatically, his spear-sharp fingertips aimed directly at the sternum of the man who cringed before Smith's desk.
    Sweating profusely, Holz cowered, petrified and utterly defenseless against the killer attack.

    Out in the van, Curt Newton was frantic.
    "Boost the signal!"
    "I can't."
    "There's got to be interference coming from somewhere!"
    "There's no interference. The signal's fine."
    Newton shook his head. "This is impossible," he said again, desperately.
    Information raced across the screen at a rate Newton had never before seen. The lightning-fast binary scroll was reflected in his owlish glasses.
    "Master of Sinanju, I meant you no harm," the pleading