by Mark Alpert
“Get on your feet, Lieutenant.”
Frazier rose from his bunk. This was his last chance. If he didn’t say something now, they were going to lock him up forever. “Sir? There’s something you should know. Something I haven’t mentioned yet to anyone.”
“All right, spit it out.”
Frazier nodded. “It was that freak, Raza Khan. He’s the reason why I blacked out.”
Grant stepped closer. The look on his face was dead serious. “You’re saying the cripple did it? Before he died on us?”
“I know it sounds crazy, sir, but that kid did something to me. He got into my head and started screwing around with my thoughts. I swear, it was like fucking telepathy. He couldn’t move his body, but he could do things with his mind.” Frazier tapped his own temple for emphasis. “I’m telling you, sir, the freak planned the whole thing. He was trying to help his dad escape, so he messed with my head and Weinberg’s head too. That’s why Weinberg started acting and talking like he was hypnotized. Somehow the kid figured out how to manipulate him.”
The colonel said nothing at first. He just stared at Frazier, tilting his head up so he could look him in the eye. Now I’m fucked, Frazier thought. Instead of putting me in prison, they’re gonna ship me off to the nuthouse.
But after a few seconds, Grant stretched his arm toward Frazier and clasped his shoulder. “You’re right, Lieutenant. That’s exactly what happened.”
Frazier was so surprised, he couldn’t tell if Grant was serious or not. Maybe the colonel was making fun of him. “So … you don’t think I’m crazy?”
Grant shook his head. “Not at all. But if I were you, I wouldn’t tell anyone else about it. You and I are the only people who witnessed this … this phenomenon.” He frowned. “The freak tried to get inside my head too. You saw what he did to me.”
“You mean, during the inspection tour last night? When we passed Room Seventeen?”
“That was the worst attack. The effect got stronger when I was near him. It almost drove me out of my fucking mind.”
Frazier recalled something else from the night before. “Before I blacked out, Weinberg showed me the freak’s brain waves. He said the CRISPR treatment had changed the way the kid’s mind worked.”
The colonel reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Yeah, Weinberg was studying the electrical activity in Raza’s brain, and he detected a big spike in the intensity of the signals.” Grant unfolded the paper, which was a copy of the EEG results that Frazier had seen the night before. “We found this printout in Room Seventeen after Weinberg and Hamid ran off. I won’t pretend to understand all this shit, but I can tell you what my staff researchers said when they examined the thing. Apparently, the signals in Raza Khan’s head were hundreds of times more powerful than a normal brain wave. They were strong enough to extend beyond the kid’s skull and generate electromagnetic fields in the surrounding area. Kind of like a biological radio, see?”
Frazier stared at the jagged lines on the EEG printout. Now that he knew what they meant, the curves and twists looked sinister. “So he sent out his thoughts like radio signals? That’s how they got into my head?”
“They went right through your skull and interfered with your own signals. And the freak tried to do the same thing to me.” Grant scowled at the sheet of paper in his hand. “It was a nasty fucking trick, and with practice the kid got better at it. Once he was confident enough, he must’ve pumped up his brain to maximum volume so he could hypnotize Weinberg and get him to free Hamid. And when you came into Room Seventeen, the freak revved up his brain again so he could knock you out. But he must’ve pushed himself too far and blown a fuse or something. We’re doing an autopsy on him right now to see what happened.”
“Jesus.” Frazier couldn’t help but be impressed. “He sacrificed himself.”
“I wouldn’t get too sentimental about it.” Grant lifted his head and aimed his scowl at Frazier. Then he refolded the printout and stuck it back in his pocket. “I, for one, am very fucking glad the freak is dead. Now we just have to clean up the mess he made. Weinberg knows everything about Palindrome, so we need to track down that asshole and drag him back here. That’ll be your job, Lieutenant.”
Frazier pointed at himself. “You mean I’m cleared for duty? I can go back to work?”
“Yeah, you’re good to go. Sorry to keep you locked up for so long, but we needed to test your DNA, and then I had to go to Queens to get Phase Three started. Believe me, you’re lucky you missed that shit show. That fucking Vance Keller is worse than all the Khans put together.”
“Sir, what’s the status of the search for Weinberg? Where have you looked so far?”
Grant spread his arms wide. “We sent his picture to every Federal Service team in the city, but no one’s spotted him yet. The problem is, he could be hiding in a million places, and we don’t have the manpower to look everywhere. Because the New York cops won’t cooperate with us, the FSU has to keep the peace in the whole goddamn city, and that leaves us pretty stretched.”
Frazier stared at the floor and thought it over for a moment. “Well, we can make a guess about Weinberg at least. Raza did a real number on that guy’s brain. The kid hypnotized the shit out of him, so there’s a chance that Weinberg is still following the instructions the freak gave him last night. And one of those instructions was probably Take my dad to Jenna. So if we can find her, we’ll also find Weinberg and Hamid.” He raised his head and looked at Grant. “But we don’t know where Jenna is either, do we?”
“No, we don’t. But I know someone who might give us a clue to her whereabouts.” Grant stuck out his thumb and pointed it behind him. “And he’s right here in the maximum-security wing.”
“Who?”
“Your old commander, Derek Powell. He survived.”
* * *
It took Frazier a while to get over his dismay. He’d seen Powell on the operating table the night before, his torso split open, his heart failing, his vital signs flatlining. Frazier had convinced himself that the man would die and justice would be served. So the news of Powell’s survival hit him hard. It shattered his belief in a righteous universe. Frazier thought of the checkpoint at Bay Parkway, the truck crashing through the fence, the dead boy floating in the floodwaters. It was all Powell’s fault. How could he be allowed to get away with it?
And Colonel Grant told Frazier something else that made the news even worse. After Powell regained consciousness an hour ago—the doctors had moved his gurney to a detention cell—he’d refused to talk to the FSU interrogators. They’d made threats and promises, even offering to pardon Powell if he cooperated, but he wouldn’t say a word. When Grant paid a visit to the cell and approached Powell’s bedside, the bastard just closed his eyes and turned away.
The colonel hadn’t given up, though. He wanted Frazier to try talking to the traitor. It didn’t seem logical—why would Powell open up to the man who’d nearly killed him? But an order was an order, and Frazier was a loyal soldier. He saluted Grant, marched out of his detention cell, and headed for Powell’s.
The doctors had moved some medical equipment into the traitor’s cell, as well as an extra-large gurney. The bed was more than seven feet long from head to foot, and yet it was barely large enough to hold Powell. His wrists and ankles had been cuffed to the bed rails, and thick belts had been strapped across his thighs and chest to keep him down on the mattress. As an extra precaution, two FSU officers armed with handguns stood by the door, ready to cut down Powell if he tried to break free of his restraints. Frazier eyed the bed and the officers, double-checking all the security measures until he was satisfied. Then he took a good look at his former commander.
Powell was alive, but just barely. His giant body lay on the bed like a mound of black earth, half covered by a tentlike hospital gown. His arms and legs, heavy and limp, poked out from under the gown’s blue fabric, which rose and fell ever so slightly as he breathed. His face looked deflated, the skin han
ging loose over his skull, his eyes closed and his mouth open, his scalp covered with thin black stubble. All in all, he seemed exposed and helpless, and Frazier felt a rush of satisfaction at the sight. This was worse than death, he thought. This was utter defeat.
But as Frazier stepped closer to the bed, he noticed several changes that told a different story. Frazier’s memory was so good that he could recall exactly what Powell looked like yesterday afternoon, when they’d fought on the glass-strewn floor of the mausoleum, and he remembered seeing an ulcerous lesion on the side of Powell’s neck. The lesion was closed now and almost healed. Powell’s skin also looked healthier—the pale patches on his face were shrinking—and his lungs didn’t rattle anymore when he inhaled. And a few seconds later, when the giant finally opened his eyes, Frazier saw that they weren’t bloodshot at all. Powell looked right at him, calm and cool.
Frazier tensed. His former commander had been given a new CRISPR injection designed to repair the genetic damage caused by the earlier treatments. That’s why his eyes had stopped bleeding and his lungs had stopped rattling. Although Powell was still recovering from his wounds right now, very soon he would grow stronger than ever. That made him a danger to everyone on Rikers Island, no matter how many belts and handcuffs tied him down.
Wary, Frazier stopped in his tracks. He glared at Powell, but at the same time he stayed more than five feet away from the hospital bed. “Well, well. It looks like the doctors patched you up. It probably wasn’t easy putting you back together after the shit-kicking I gave you yesterday.”
Powell didn’t react. He just stared at Frazier in that cool, indifferent way, as if he was watching a TV ad for car insurance. He seemed completely uninterested.
Frazier glanced again at the FSU officers at the door, his backup. Then he turned back to Powell. “If it was up to me, I would’ve let you bleed out. I don’t have a lot of sympathy for deserters. Especially when they take sides with the enemy. Only the most fucked-up kind of cocksucker would do something like that.”
Powell’s eyes glazed over. If he were actually watching TV, he would’ve changed channels by now. Frazier realized that this strategy wasn’t working—he couldn’t prod Powell into conversation by insulting him. The situation called for a little more creativity.
After a few seconds, Frazier tried something else. “You know what pisses me off the most? I used to respect you. I used to think you were the bravest goddamn soldier in the U.S. Army.” He pointed at Powell. “Remember the ambush at the start of our last tour, about a week after we flew into Afghanistan? When the jihadis surrounded us at that shitty outpost in Marjah?” He paused, hoping for some kind of response, but Powell said nothing. “We had no air support, no armor, no heavy guns. And this was months before we got the Palindrome shots. But you weren’t worried. You even seemed happy about it. You remember what you said to the platoon?”
Still no reaction from Powell. He just kept staring.
“Okay, I’ll remind you. You said, ‘Drop your cocks and grab your socks, boys. It’s showtime.’ And we put on a show, all right. We didn’t give a shit if we lived or died. We just followed your lead and killed every last one of those towel-heads.” Frazier raised his voice. He was getting hot and angry. “And that’s the problem, see? Because you’re different now. Just six months ago, you were a war hero, and now you’re a fucking traitor. You turned against your country and started knocking boots with burqa bitches like Jenna Khan. And I can’t understand it. What got into you, Powell? What the fuck happened?”
Frazier was out of breath by the time he finished. He’d worked himself up, getting more furious by the second, and now he was shaking. And it wasn’t because Powell had betrayed his country, America the Beautiful, Home of the Brave. No, this was personal. Powell had betrayed him. He’d tossed Frazier aside like a piece of garbage.
But even as Frazier trembled with rage, he saw the change in Powell’s expression. The man narrowed his eyes. He seemed to be irritated by something Frazier had said. “I didn’t touch Jenna. I never touched her.”
His voice was surprisingly loud. Frazier felt the urge to step farther away from the hospital bed, but he stood his ground. He needed to keep Powell talking. “What were you doing with her then? Why did you help her escape from the arresting officers?”
Powell frowned. He probably regretted opening his mouth, but now that he’d started talking he couldn’t stop. “I thought she could cure me.”
“Cure you?”
“She worked on Palindrome. She was one of the scientists. From what I could tell, she was the smartest one.” He shrugged, moving his shoulders as much as his restraints would allow. “So I thought she’d be the best person to fix me.”
Frazier was confused. “Wait a second. When did you find out about her? Back when we were in Afghanistan?”
“No. All I knew then was that something was wrong with me. And the army wasn’t interested in fixing it. They just wanted to study us, and they swept all their mistakes under the rug.” Powell raised his head off his pillow and looked Frazier in the eye. “You remember Colson? And Spinelli?”
Frazier nodded. They were two of the Palindrome subjects in their platoon who had to be shipped back home. Probably to a VA hospital, given their mental condition. But both those guys were pretty screwed-up to begin with, even before they got the injections. “Look, we all knew there were risks. That’s why they offered the ten-thousand-dollar bonus for volunteering. But what you did? Deserting the battlefield? That was just wrong. You put yourself above everyone else. It was cowardly.”
At first Frazier worried that he’d gone too far. He thought Powell would get enraged and try to lunge at him, despite the belt across his chest and the handcuffs on his wrists. But Powell didn’t try to break free. He looked at Frazier for a few more seconds, furrowing his brow, clearly struggling with his emotions. Then his head sank back to the pillow, and the look of defeat reappeared on his face. “Yeah, I messed up. The whole thing was a disaster.”
Frazier didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected Powell to give up so easily. “You should’ve trusted Colonel Grant. You should’ve talked to him as soon as you started having problems. Grant’s a reasonable man. I mean, just look at how he’s treated you in the past twenty-four hours. He saved your life and got you a brand-new CRISPR treatment to fix all your symptoms.”
“You’re right. I was stupid.” Powell closed his eyes. “Jenna couldn’t cure me. She said she couldn’t do it alone, but I don’t think she even wanted to.” He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “She only cared about her father and brother. She couldn’t wait to get away from me.”
He fell silent and took another deep breath. It looked like he was tired of talking and wanted to go back to sleep.
Frazier was disappointed. His former commander seemed so listless and beaten. He didn’t sound like a soldier anymore; he sounded more like a homeless guy, a sad, decrepit bum, someone who’d given up on everything. In a way, this change in his personality was even more disorienting than his desertion and rebellion. It was a bigger step away from his true character.
But there was a reason for the change, Frazier remembered, a biological explanation. The new CRISPR treatment was at work inside his body, inserting the Serenity sequence into Powell’s DNA. Within the cells of his brain, the CRISPR molecules were making the same genetic changes that had calmed the leader of the Yemeni terrorists, the fat Al-Qaeda asshole in the interrogation room. The new sequence was curbing Powell’s rebelliousness and restraining his aggression. It was pacifying him.
Or at least that’s what Frazier assumed was happening. He couldn’t be sure about Powell’s transformation until he put it to the test. He stepped closer to the gurney and leaned over the man. “Powell? It’s not too late to make this right. There’s still a chance for you to help Colonel Grant and the Palindrome Project. And if you help us out, I’m sure the colonel will take that into account when he’s deciding the appropriate punishment for you
r actions.”
Powell kept his eyes closed. He turned his head on the pillow, as if shaking off a bad dream. “Help? I can’t help you. I’m no good. I’m useless.”
“Listen carefully. We have to find Jenna Khan. We think she’s associating with another Palindrome defector, and we need to arrest both of them before they interfere with the project. Do you know where Jenna is?”
Powell lay still. For a moment Frazier wondered whether he’d slipped back into unconsciousness. But after several seconds the man shook his head. “No. I have no idea.”
“Don’t lie to me, Powell. I was there in the mausoleum when you told Jenna to run off. You said, ‘I’ll find you.’ That means you knew where she was going. Did you make plans to meet her somewhere?”
Powell shook his head again, still keeping his eyes closed. “We didn’t make any plans. I told you, she wants nothing to do with me.”
Frazier bent lower over the bed. His face was less than a foot from Powell’s. “Think harder, Captain. This is your last chance. You can spend the rest of your life in a prison cell, kept alive only because the scientists want to study you, or you can try to win your way back into honorable service, doing your part to defend your country.” He bent even closer to Powell and lowered his voice to a grim whisper. “You were with Jenna Khan for a whole night and day, so you must’ve spent at least some of that time talking with her. Did she mention any places where she thought she could hide or get help? Any place at all?”
Powell opened his eyes. He seemed startled and uneasy, as if he’d just remembered something. “There was an address. That newspaper reporter gave her an address.” He looked straight at Frazier. “It happened in the sentry tower on Bay Parkway. Right after the shootings two nights ago.”