The Judas Contact (Boomers Book 1) by Heather Long

reaction. Every choice created a splinter in the future. If his future came from one of her choices then, arguably, eliminating her could be a rational solution.
    “We’re not going to kill you, Doctor Blaine—”
    “Ilsa,” she interrupted. “I’m about to subject you to a battery of tests and get very personal. You should call me Ilsa.”
    His expression softened with a hint of a smile, and her heart did another skip. “Ilsa. No one lied when we said we wanted answers. Your work may have contributed to our chips, but technology alone does not design a future. If we’ve learned anything in the last few years, it’s that our choices have as much effect on what happens as the choices of others.”
    “This is insane. And you will feel a bit of a sting. Release your hand when I push the needle in, okay?”
    He nodded. She inserted the needle and, as soon as blood beaded on the inside of the syringe, she attached a vial and tried to keep her focus clinical as it filled. Two more vials later, she pulled the syringe out and kept her hand over the insertion site, applying pressure with some white linen swabs. She set the vials into a tray stand and bent his arm upwards. His warmth seemed to penetrate through the thick suit.
    Based on his earlier concern, that should probably worry her, but it was strangely comforting. “Are you okay?” She looked him over carefully.
    “I’m fine.” He shrugged off her touch gently, but firmly. As he tugged away the linen, she glanced at his arm then gaped. The puncture was closed.
    She grabbed his arm again and stared down at the inner fold of his elbow. The natural creases were smooth, not even a faint bruise remained from where she’d pushed the needle in. Granted, needles didn’t leave huge marks, but it had only been seconds.
    “We heal quickly, Doc—Ilsa.” Garrett’s voice took on that gentle, patient quality again as though he were talking her down off a ledge.
    “That’s not possible. Even in superior healing, you would still have a mark where the needle inserted.” Since the first Gulf War, scientists and physicians focused on battlefield triage sought ways to speed blood clotting and wound repair to minimize lasting damage. But she hadn’t used anything more than some alcohol and linen scraps.
    “It isn’t possible now .” He gently extracted himself. “Run your tests on the blood, I’ll clean up the syringes. Do not take off that hazmat.” The last statement brooked no argument and she nodded obediently.
    An hour later, she stood inside the decontamination chamber Garrett insisted on before she stripped out of the suit. Her mind whirled. She’d destroyed the two vials of blood she tested and stored the third in a secure hazard container in the iso-room’s fridge. Her mind whirled with the possibilities. His blood toxin level was through the roof. He should be dead.
    More than dead, his body should be bloated and decaying right before her and not be so healthy, vital, and sexy. He’d been quiet while she tested, saying nothing in response to her mutterings of “impossible” over and over again. As she stripped off the helmet, she met his gaze.
    “How are you still alive?” Throughout the 1980s, there had been reports of surgical patients mixing chemotherapy with homeopathic remedies, leading to the release of toxic gas in their blood. More than a few doctors, nurses, and surgical personnel collapsed from the neurotoxins those patients released. Study of their impact on the blood/brain chemistry had actually been the focus of her thesis in school. Garrett’s blood toxicity levels made those patients look like a flower perfumed park.
    “I just am.” He’d rolled his sleeves down again. Only the skin of his neck and face was left exposed. “As I said, I can control the toxin. But you just have to avoid casual or unexpected touching.”
    Her heart twisted. “No one touches you?”
    “No one.” He nodded and took the suit from her fingers. He