Free The God Patent by Ransom Stephens

investing with Blair Keene.
    “I talked to Blair last week. We’ve got a team of engineers combing through your book. I’m based here in Washington. Blair suggested I come out today.”
    Foster smiled on the man, recognizing that he was a weapon in God’s war, not a soldier. If NEG invested in Creation Energy, nothing could stop them. “A team of engineers? I’d be happy to extend my trip to address any technical questions.”
    Smythe said, “There are a few hurdles that Keene and I need to jump, but let me tell you this: we think there is synergy between NEG and Creation Energy that can make America safer, stronger, and more righteous.”
    Smythe squeezed Foster’s shoulder and motioned to the man who’d helped with Foster’s briefcase. “This is Steven Jones, the project leader for our Alternative Energy Group. He’ll be your NEG liaison in the development of Creation Energy.”
    Foster took the man’s hand. In a navy blue blazer, khaki pants, and a black polo shirt with the NEG logo, Jones looked like an engineer, a company man. Jones gave him a firm handshake.
    “Do you have time to get lunch?” Jones said. “I have some questions about the project, the intellectual property, and the development plan.” Foster noticed that the man had a copy of
The Cosmology of Creation
in his other hand. He also noticed that the copy looked fresh from the printer. In the face of all this enthusiasm, the near-commitment of a huge financial backer, Foster would have preferred to see a thoroughly dog-eared copy.
    Smythe said, “Of course you have time. Let’s get a nice meal, and you two can talk shop.” He applied enough pressure to Foster’s shoulder to encourage him to step toward the door but not so much that Foster felt coerced.
    The first man held the door open. In addition to the black suit, he was wearing a wire in his ear and a pair of sunglasses that were straight from the movie
Men in Black
.

T rue to his word, Ryan made rent on the third month. He’d scored a six-month contract as a technician at a big fiber-optics company just across the river, FiberSpec Communications. When Ryan handed him the check, Dodge said, “You should be working off the books.” Ryan didn’t understand the reference and didn’t want to start a conversation with Dodge, so he didn’t ask.
    He took on any extra work he could find too. He filled in at the Tea Café or Copperfield’s Bookstore when someone called in sick, and he did odd jobs for Dodge. Each month, he paid rent, kept $200 to live on, and sent the rest to Linda—barely a third of his child support payment but hopefully enough to show he was trying.
    In those first three months, Ryan still hadn’t seen Katarina’s mother. Other than a few rapidly shut doors, the only sign that she existed at all was the sound of Katarina arguing with her. Ryan was sympathetic, though; it had taken his mother five years to recover from his father’s death. Of course, Ryan had had Grandma and his sisters to fill the gap.
    Katarina only had Dodge. Yikes.
    When Ryan got home from work, Katarina was usually sitting on that ridiculous red velvet couch watching TV in Dodge’s living room. Ryan would sit at the other end of the couch, andafter a few weeks, the two of them were exchanging wisecracks about the quality of the music videos and skateboard competitions that Katarina watched. It brought Ryan up to speed on pop music, and he learned more about extreme skateboarding than he thought there was to know. That part was scary; Katarina was bound to try those stunts. That the kid had no boundaries made him angry with her mother. He knew what his grandma would say; he could hear her voice. “We mustn’t waste our time on the dead.”
    In December, Dodge put a huge plastic Christmas tree topped with a Star of David in the foyer and set gift boxes wrapped in red, green, and blue beneath it. Ryan was surprised that Dodge would bother. Katarina said, “He’s pretending to be a human