So far as Lindstrom could see, the pickup innings served as a mirror for his work on SUBNETS at DARPA. Sometimes there were breakthroughs, at other times false leads, or even paths that led to dead ends, but every breakthrough, no matter how small, led him closer to his ultimate goal.

Lindstrom had long ago reconciled himself to working on advance-stage weaponry. It didn’t take much for him. He was on the milder side of the Asperger’s spectrum. On the whole, he had no use for mankind, which, in his opinion, was using up natural resources in the most wanton, ignorant manner. It was mankind’s fate, he firmly believed, to die off and be replaced by … what exactly? Lindstrom didn’t know, but he strongly suspected it would be robots. The Singularity was almost upon mankind—the latest estimation as early as 2045—the moment when robots equaled and then surpassed humans in intelligence.

What would happen then? Renaissance or Armageddon?

He was brought out of his reverie; someone was calling his name. He looked toward the street and saw Valerie Revere, King Cutler’s assistant. She was watching him from the sidewalk, her fingers curled through the cyclone fence that demarked the ball field.

His thin lips curled into a semblance of a smile. He adored secrets; especially the one he shared with Valerie.

Calling a halt to the game, he waited until his people had collected their gear, crossed the street, and entered the secure DARPA building before he approached her.

“Morning,” he said. “You’re up early.” That was for anyone who might be listening, though he saw no one in the vicinity, no suspicious-looking vans that might house surveillance, both human and electronic. Still, you never knew; it paid to take every precaution.

“Do you have time for a walk?” she asked.

He made a show of checking his watch. “Sure,” he nodded. He gathered up his glove and ball, stuffed them into a nylon backpack, which he slung over his shoulder. As he emerged from the park, he pulled the bill of his Nationals cap lower on his forehead. They crossed two streets to the parking lot catty-corner to the ball field.

Valerie had driven over in a dark-blue ten-year-old BMW. Though they met fairly regularly, she never arrived in the same car twice. They were not rentals, she had assured him early on in the relationship; all of them were completely secure.

She unlocked the car and they got in—she behind the wheel, him sitting in the shotgun seat. Now he had a moment to look at her naturally, rather than keeping her in the corner of his vision. She was a pleasant-looking woman, he supposed, though he was far from the one to ask about those things, rather full-figured, but all in the right places, so far as he knew. She was a redhead—natural, he surmised, from her pale coloring. Were he any other kind of male he would have liked her—perhaps he even did—though, again, he was hardly the person to ask about such things.