Tier Trilogy: Books 1-3

by Cindy Gunderson

  “Nick!” I call desperately, my voice hoarse. He turns, seeing my pale face and stringy hair, and rushes toward me.

  “Kate? Are you ok?” he questions, cringing as the scent of vomit registers. “What is going on?” It is only then that I notice the other committee members gathered behind him, moving toward us. Oddly recognizing the faces of two people standing behind him stops me in my tracks. Where would I have seen them before? I shake my head. That will have to wait. I need to say this now.

  “Nick, I don’t think the reversal therapy I had was a one-time thing,” I blurt out. “What if it happened more than once? Wouldn’t that explain the intensity of the dreams? The headaches? And, if my previous reversal surrounded my mom, the next one must have been about—”

  “Stop!” Nick shouts forcefully, his face pinched into an expression I have never witnessed on him before. Reeling as if slapped, I step back.

  “Nick, I’m trying to tell you—”

  “No, Kate. You don’t understand. I have personally seen your scans and there is no other evidence of reversal. I know this is frustrating and you are under an incredible amount of stress with the girls—”

  “That’s not it, Nick,” I say, pursing my lips and shaking my head. “This is the first time that I have felt solid. That I potentially have understanding and answers for the uneasiness I have felt for months.”

  “You have felt uneasy for months?” he asks, a pained expression on his face. “And here I thought we were doing well,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes.

  “No, I don’t mean uneasy with us, I mean—”

  “Seems like it would be the same thing,” he concludes. My heart starts to pound and tears burn at the corner of my eyes. Something moves in my peripheral vision, and I realize that the Committee members are all still standing there, watching our interaction. Heat rises to my cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, Nick. I am really emotional and I should have waited until we got home. Everyone, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” I say, addressing them, then swiftly turn on my heel, moving as quickly as possible toward the exit. Remembering that my sensor and display are still in the training room, I change direction and run directly into something. Falling sideways, an arm reaches out to steady me. I look up to see Nick, searching my face. This. We have done this before. I freeze, absorbed by the odd deja vu of the moment.

  “Let me help you, Kate,” he says. Concern and something else I can’t quite place in his expression.

  “I forgot my things—” I whisper.

  “I’ll get them,” he assures me, “sit,” and lowers me to a bench along the wall, disappearing into the auditorium.

  66 Nick

  Finding Kate’s sensor and water bottle quite easily, I reenter the hallway and realize that I also left something behind in all the chaos. My tablet is still in the Committee room, so I hurriedly make my way that direction, not wanting to leave Kate alone for long.

  Walking briskly along the hall, I stop short, hearing hushed voices ahead of me. I slow my pace, walking softly toward the door, so as to not interrupt. As I approach, recognition makes me stop dead in my tracks.

  “It seems to have worked effectively,” I hear Grace say softly.

  “How is her pair reacting?” the Director asks.

  “It’s been difficult, but he is adjusting nicely,” she replies, still hushed. “Ellen is still experiencing some confusion with the shift.”

  Ellen? I treated an Ellen last week. Could they be referring to the same person? I’m being ridiculous. There are likely plenty of women named Ellen in Tier 1...yet I inch closer to the door, my heart hammering in my chest.

  “That’s to be expected,” he replies. “At least, with this new procedure Nick has developed, we can be assured that the information is safe.”

  My breath catches in my throat. Information? Though I didn’t pay close attention to the reason for her treatment, I think I would have noticed if it was linked to Committee information. Not hearing a reply, I back up silently, then walk quickly and loudly toward the room.

  Grace and the Director startle as I enter.

  “Hey,” I say, “I forgot my tablet, and yep, there it is,” I announce triumphantly, picking it up and adding it to my bag. “Sorry to interrupt,” I add, hastily waving and retreating back to the hallway.

  After dropping Kate off at home, I take the car back into the lab. The hallways are dark, and my fingers search the wall for the emergency lights. Flicking them on, I am momentarily blinded. As my eyes adjust, I make my way to the dock and log in, pulling up Ellen’s file. Scanning, I find the intake information and am validated in my initial thoughts.

  Reason for trial: Self reported headaches

  Reason for initial treatment: Injury to child on 7/16, anxiety

  No reference to ‘information’. What does that even mean? And why would it need to be protected? I quickly review the initial scans I received, indicating the location in the brain that was to be treated. Frontal cortex and hippocampus. Predictable, but—wait. I scroll back through, leaning closer and double-checking. Why no amygdala? If it was an emotional, traumatic event—and I assume an injury to a child would be both—that would absolutely be affected. My heart begins to pound and a weight seems to settle on my chest. I open three more patient files from the same treatment batch and, after closely analyzing the prescribed reversal areas, it becomes obvious that there are more discrepancies. My cheeks flush, dread building in my stomach, as the realization sinks in. These patients. They weren’t coming in voluntarily. Well, that’s not completely true. They obviously walked in of their own accord, but they were lied to about the purpose for their visit. Opening file after file, I continue to absorb the inevitable truth. Could there be an explanation for this? How did I not notice this previously? I trusted the information I was given and didn’t question, so intently focused on Kate and my own internal struggles. Selfish—and reckless—yet again. Running my hands through my hair, I log out and exit the lab, nearly slamming the door behind me.

  67 Nick

  I can’t serve them both. Kate, in her dramatic—very public—monologue, mentioned having answers for the first time and though I cringed when she said it, the sentiment resonates deeply with me now. Fear and embarrassment propelled my reaction in that moment. I couldn’t allow Kate to continue and possibly harm my rapport with the Committee, or get herself in trouble. My harsh response was an attempt to protect her, though she likely won’t see it that way. But all of that has shifted now. Understanding and peace flood my mind for the first time in what seems like forever. Finally. I know. It is as if the chaos that has been building within me for months has suddenly snapped into order.

  I can’t serve them both. The goals are not compatible, and I now realize that this is what I have been preparing for my whole life. The constant conditioning, service, leadership opportunities, all of it. Culminating in what some may perceive as a piddly conclusion, yet for me, life-changing. Everything within me is more full, more alive.

  Walking into the meeting room tonight, I practically bounce on the balls of my feet. Shari is already seated when I enter and she looks at me, a quizzical expression on her face.

  “That...is not how I expected to see you arrive tonight,” she comments.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You look like you just made a world-altering discovery or something, and after last night—wait, did you make a discovery?” she suddenly asks, her eyes widening.

  I laugh freely. “No, I wish,” I say. “I don’t know, I feel fantastic and I guess it shows?”

  She shrugs, rolling her eyes at my apparent naivety.

  The Director walks in, flanked by Grace who closes the door as she enters.

  “I promise,” I say, breaking the silence, “this meeting will not be long. I appreciate you coming and hope that what I have to say will relieve you of any concerns you may have after last night’s...occurrences.”

  Their expressions are hard and it makes me almost gidd
y. I continue.

  “As you know, I have been running trials on patients who are both receiving new therapy, as well as those who are suffering from side-effects of previous involuntary reversal treatments.”

  At this, their heads all snap to attention and I chuckle.

  “Nick, that was never—” the Director starts.

  “As a Committee member, I took my position seriously and did my homework, sir,” I say pointedly, and his eyes dart to Grace. Good. Let him be uncomfortable.

  “These trials have been extremely successful and I am positive that I will have a complete report with a full plan of action for reversal treatments moving forward within a couple of weeks. These,” I say, pulling up a chart on my display and magnifying it, “are the results we already have.”

  Their eyes scan the data in unison, eyes widening. The Director clears his throat.

  “Nick, this is impressive. How did you do it? What is the treatment?”

  “I will outline everything in the report,” I say.

  “Surely you could—“

  “I’m sorry, sir, but nothing can be implemented until I have the final trial honed and the results reported. Once I do, you three will be the first to know.”

  “I have to tell the Committees in other territories now, Nick. If we have something that could eliminate these negative effects—I mean, this will absolutely revolutionize the technology.”

  “I would be happy for you to share these results,” I say.

  “When will your report be ready?” he asks, practically salivating. “I could call a regional Council meeting and we could share it all in person.”

  “If that’s what you would prefer, I can give you a specific date by the middle of next week, once we have treated our last group of subjects.” He nods in agreement.

  “Nick,” Grace interjects, “don’t take this personally, but it seems like you are in the midst of a personal crisis. Kate looked terrible last night—“

  “I know,” I acknowledge, “but that’s the beauty of it. Kate is struggling with adverse strain on her frontal cortex due to her extensive round of recent reversal therapy—administered in a matter of days, I might add.”

  All three of them look down.

  “Kate will be one of my first subjects this week and I fully expect that her symptoms will disappear. Obviously, all of these patients will need to be monitored over time to ensure no symptoms crop up in the months and years to come, but we at least have a solid base to go on,” I conclude, my body humming. This has unfolded exactly as I anticipated.

  “Impressive, Nick. I have to admit, I was...quite concerned after last night’s display.”

  “I know, that’s exactly why I felt this meeting was necessary. One last thing I wanted to mention. I won’t be following the transition guidelines with my family. With Kate undergoing more therapy, it will be better to keep her apprised.”

  “I don’t think—“ the Director begins, but I cut him off.

  “With all due respect, sir, I have determined that this is the best course of action given the situation. I wasn’t asking for permission. I know this is probably not typical of a new Committee member, but I hope you trust me enough to know that I wouldn’t be altering protocol if it wasn’t medically necessary.”

  The Director nods, his lips pursed.

  “Thank you, Nick,” Shari says, and I take that as my cue to exit.

  On the way home, I send a message to Kate, asking if Bentley is available for some one-on-one time. I’ve been so wrapped up in trials, I haven’t had the chance to connect with him. I haven’t even talked with him about his Tier 3 questions, not that I can really say much at this point anyway.

  I have to tell Kate first. My hands practically vibrate in anticipation of that moment. Days ago, the unknowns of her response kept me up at night, but now—I nearly laugh out loud at my recent former self. Why was I so unwilling to be honest with myself? Why did I continue to force an outcome that so obviously wasn’t possible? Freedom isn’t a byproduct of perfect outcomes. It is gained through the acceptance of any outcome that is a direct result of integral action. Today, I am finally a free man.

  Bentley hops down the steps, trying to hide his enthusiasm. He adjusts his lips every few steps, but a shy smile continues to pull up the corners of his mouth. I step out into the golden evening light, arms stretched out to embrace him.

  “Hey,” I say through my smile, “thanks for hanging out with me.”

  “What are we going to do?” he asks.

  “I thought we could go play some baseball—we haven’t done that in a while. But if you have something you would rather do, I’m flexible,” I add, searching his face for a reaction.

  “Baseball sounds good,” he says, still jumping from one foot to the next, kicking at small pebbles on the sidewalk.

  “Baseball it is,” I conclude, walking to the back of my car to take the gloves out of the storage compartment.

  “How come you always have sports equipment back there now?” he asks.

  “It’s a perk of the job,” I say, “these are ours to keep.” His eyes light up.

  “Really? How?”

  “I’ll explain another time,” I say, handing him a glove. He immediately loses a ball in the neighbor’s yard, trying to toss it to himself. I motion for him to follow me down the path toward the park.

  Water droplets from afternoon rain still shimmer on the foliage that lines the walkway. Bentley taps the branches of trees and bushes as we pass, sending microcosmic rain showers to the ground below. When I notice a few mosquitos whining near my face, I regret not grabbing skin protectant. Hopefully someone else will be at the park and we can borrow some. Walking back home at this point would be quite anticlimactic.

  “So Bent,” I ask, “what’s new with you these days? Are you researching anything new?” He purses his lips, tapping another bush.

  “I don’t know, I’m taking a break right now.”

  “You are?”

  “I still don’t have enough information for my last study. Did you find the charts?”

  “I did.”

  “Was I missing something?” he asks, pausing and cocking his head to the side.

  “No, you definitely weren’t. I think the information isn’t up to date,” I say. “I put in a request with the Committee, citing the inconsistencies you noticed.” That part is actually true, I just can’t give him the full truth. Yet.

  “You did?” he asks, moseying along again.

  “I did.”

  “When are they going to update it?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think I will have more information for you soon. In the meantime, what else are you interested in?” I ask, noticing a small mushroom growing at the edge of the path and stopping to inspect it.

  “Growing,” Bentley answers, squatting down next to me. “I want to fix the soil so we can grow things everywhere again.”

  “That,” I say, ruffling his hair, “is a worthy goal.”

  “Hey! I just brushed that!” he says, standing up and frantically straightening the strands.

  “You say you just brushed it?” I tease, reaching toward his head with a dramatically outstretched hand. He laughs and runs further up the path.

  “I won’t mess it up, again,” I chuckle, calling after him. “C’mon, don’t get too far ahead!”

  “Race you!” he shouts, his short legs kicking up rocks as he takes off. I laugh out loud as he passes, his right fingers gripping the waistband of his pants out of habit as he runs, taunting me, and disappearing between the trees.

  68 Eric

  Val’s long, blond hair hangs down her back, obscuring the back of the bench she is leaning against. As I approach, her head turns and she lights up. Standing, she greets me with a warm embrace. This has felt natural to me for a while now. I’m not sure exactly when it shifted, but I’m glad it did.

  Returning herself to the bench, Val shifts, allowing me space to sit next to her.

  “How was y
our day?” I ask, a smile slightly lifting the corner of my mouth. I try to tone it down, not wanting to come across too strong, but I can’t help it.

  “Just a normal day,” she says, laughing breathily. “What about you?”

  “We prepped the legumes—they should be thoroughly soaked by tomorrow for planting. That took up more time than I had anticipated, but I was able to get to that fertilizer spill, you’ll be glad to know.”

  “Ugh, finally!” she goads. “Will we actually have a date where you don’t smell like fish?”

  My mouth drops in mock disgust. “Val, here I am telling you about my deep, loyal servitude and you are criticizing my scent?”

  She laughs, throwing her head back the way she does, brushing her hand against my arm. The sun glints off her hair, almost creating a halo effect around her face.

  “So...this is a date?” I ask softly.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s okay, I’m just giving you a hard time,” I say lightly. My hand, nearly of its own accord, reaches out and my thumb caresses her jaw line. Her laughter stops abruptly, her eyes not leaving mine. I move closer to her, feeling her arm slip around my waist. Suddenly, my sensor buzzes—then pings—breaking the spell.

  I smile apologetically and check my messages. What could possibly be this urgent?

  Tal in nurse’s office, in pain. Please come quickly.

  My lips draw into a frown as I hastily scrawl a response.

  “Is everything alright?” Val asks hesitantly.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “It’s Tal.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “Of course I do,” I say, “but I’m not sure what I will be walking into. Given—well, I think it may be best for me to go alone,” I conclude. She nods.

  “Totally. Call me when you know? We could still take our walk a bit later,” she suggests and I nod.