Barriers

by Patrick Skelton

  “I’ve heard enough of this trash,” Bennie said, waving his hand at Nathan. “Why haven’t you returned Nathan Gallagher’s phone calls?”

  “Say what?” Preston said, furrowing his eyebrows.

  “Aidan’s son tried calling you three times.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Nathan added.

  Preston slurped his drink. “I don’t have to answer to you Denver.”

  Bennie slammed his fist on the table. “Preston, do you realize who you’re talking to?”

  “I don’t really give a crap,” Preston said, taking another slurp.

  “Aidan Gallagher’s son, that’s who. And he deserves to know why you published that garbage.” Bennie ordered Nathan to take off his disguise.

  Nathan tossed the sunglasses on the table, followed by the wig and beard. Good riddance. He’d had enough of that scratchy material. And the bad comedy routine.

  “I knew there was something about him that looked familiar,” Preston garbled.

  He started to stand, but Bennie grabbed his shirt. “Not so fast.”

  Preston plunked into his chair and buried his face in his palms. Then he looked up and ran his hands through his disheveled hair. “I’ll tell you why, Bennie, but you’re not going to like it.”

  “Spit it out,” Bennie said.

  Preston wrung his hands, his voice becoming tense. “One of Chairman Alkott’s goons made me write it.”

  “What?” Nathan said, his heart leaping in his chest. “You’re sure he was working for Alkott?”

  "Of course I’m sure.”

  “Why?” Bennie asked.

  “The creep said Chairman Alkott would arrange to have my grandkids banished to the vilest Sanctuary he could think of, and I’d never see them again if I didn’t cooperate.”

  “Can they do that without a legal case for Barrier eviction?” Nathan asked.

  “You bet they can,” Preston said. “They forcibly took your boy to Sanctuary 87, didn’t they? I’ve heard the story from Aidan. Sickening.”

  “Yes, and it’s been a horrifying experience,” Nathan said. “But they did it legally.”

  “Exactly,” Preston said. “The people who run the world make troublesome Barrier residents disappear all the time, and they find a legal way to do it. They make phone calls and pass along bogus incriminating paperwork, like tax evasion and other white-collar crimes. Except Aidan was too high-profile. They couldn’t make him go away like any John Doe. They had to go about it differently.”

  Preston tapped his fork on the table. “The suicide was faked—I’m sure of it. And the note and empty booze bottles were planted. Clear evidence of suicide would detour the authorities from launching a missing persons investigation, which meant Chairman Alkott’s men could snatch Aidan without having to look over their shoulders.”

  “We know dad helped design the missile,” Nathan said. “But why is he still so important to Chairman Alkott?”

  “We want to know more about the ruse Aidan was scheming,” Bennie added. “He left me hanging when I last saw him four months ago.”

  Preston glanced around the room warily, then lowered his voice a little. “Aidan contacted me two days before his alleged suicide. He warned me that Alkott’s men might come looking for information on who he was collaborating with. After Aidan figured out he was designing a communications conduit for a deep space nuclear warhead, he decided to play it smart and not let on that he knew anything about it. You know Aidan—nobody plays him for a fool and gets away with it. He implemented a programming sequence into the conduit that would cause the missile to change course and drift off into space. The coding lies dormant and doesn’t activate until after launch. Problem was, Aidan didn’t get the programming completed before his deadline was up. He signed off on his portion of the project and assembled a team of programmers and special-ops to help figure out where the missile was located. They would hack the missile remotely and finish the programming. He fled to the cabin so he could coordinate the whole scheme discretely. There were too many distractions at the greenhouse.”

  “And the plan backfired?” Nathan said.

  “Yeah, it backfired alright. Aidan was certain Alkott’s men were onto him a few days before the authorities showed up at the cabin and found his remains. But as I said, I think the whole thing was staged. I think Alkott’s men nabbed him.”

  “But for all we know,” Nathan said, “Alkott’s men murdered dad with the molecular separator and made it look like a suicide.”

  “Not likely,” Preston said. “You can’t extract information from a dead man, and Alkott is desperate for the names of whoever Aidan’s been working with.”

  “Any guesses on where they might have taken Aidan?” Bennie asked Preston.

  “No idea.”

  Nathan leaned across the table, his voice tensing. “Look, Preston, it’s imperative that we find my father. My son’s life is on the line. Understand? Where would you look next?”

  “I know all about Ian and that device Aidan was working on,” Preston muttered. He stood and pressed his thumb against the SmartScanner the waitress had left on the table. “I’m sorry about your son, Nathan, but I’m afraid I’m out of answers.”

  Bennie frowned. “Come on Preston, old sport, throw us a bone.”

  Preston shrugged. “Visit the scene of the crime, maybe? That would be my next move.”

  “The cabin?” Nathan asked.

  Preston nodded, then glared at Bennie. “Lunch was a real pleasure, pal, just like you promised.”

  After he left, Bennie said, “He was in a lovely mood today.”

  “I thought you said he liked to joke around?”

  “I said your dad could get him laughing. I never had the touch.”

  Bennie put his ball cap back on. “At least this meeting wasn’t a complete waste of time. Preston confirmed my suspicions about what Aidan was up to.”

  “Ready to make a trip to Alaska?” Nathan said, doing a quick search on his SyncSheet for the next available flight to Anchorage. He made a mental note to let Sarah know he’d be making another trip out of town.

  Bennie asked Nathan to give him the exact location of the cabin and to book their flight a few days from now. He needed some time to arrange for an outfitter to fly them there from Anchorage. It would be a challenge at the last minute, especially in November when many bush pilots had their planes in storage for the winter. But he had a contact who owed him a favor and could pull some strings.

  They exited the cafe and approached the hover-rail terminal.

  Nathan froze.

  As a tram departed, he caught sight of a bearded man in a Royals cap sitting in a window seat.

  9

  Previously

  Kendall Rouhoff entered the Kronemeyer Children’s Hospital of Manhattan under the NYC Barrier. A bouquet of Mickey Mouse balloons bobbed above his head as he strolled through the main lobby and took an elevator to the second floor. He felt like a candy striper, but what could he do? You did whatever was necessary to maintain healthy supplier relations, especially when the soon-to-be final paycheck from Rankcon Corporation meant the end of visiting clients he despised, and the beginning of an early retirement.

  Kendall entered room 209 where a holographic game show host babbled at the foot of the little girl’s bed. Her eyes widened.

  “Here you go, sweetie,” Kendall said with the most enthusiastic voice he could muster, handing her the balloons.

  “Mickey Mouse!” she exclaimed.

  Vance stood with teary eyes. “Thanks for coming, Kendall.”

  Kendall shook his hand and tried not to breathe through his nose. Vance smelled even worse than he looked.

  “Pardon my appearance,” Vance said. “I haven’t left her side in a week. I probably could use some cleaning up.”

  No kidding, Kendall thought.

  He patted the girl’s shoulder. He hated children and vowed years ago to
never have a single one dependent on him. “How is she doing?” he asked insincerely.

  “The doctors are saying she’ll make a full recovery in a matter of months. Thanks to the gene therapy, she’s cancer free.”

  “Excellent.”

  “You and Rankcon Corporation saved her,” Vance said. “We owe you everything.”

  Kendall smiled at the little girl and gave Vance a nod. “Follow me into the hallway for a minute.”

  They walked down the hall and into a corner of the crowded waiting room. Kendall whispered, “I need to remind you, Vance, your daughter’s treatment wasn’t a gift.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And you’ve yet to fulfill your side of the deal.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’re clear on your obligations?”

  “Yeah, sure. Perfectly clear.”

  “Can you spit it back to me? I need to leave today assured that you’re fully committed.”

  Vance’s eyes darted around nervously. “You want me to talk about it here? With all these people?”

  “Nobody’s listening, Vance, and I’m a busy man. Now is as good a time as any to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  Vance cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “When Space Traffic Control receives Zathcore’s covert landing coordinates five months from now, I will notify you of those coordinates.”

  “Good boy. And when will you notify me?”

  “Immediately.”

  “And can my employer trust you to not change your mind in five months?”

  “Of course.”

  Kendall backed him further into the corner, pressing his finger against his chest. “I hope so, Vance. Five months affords you enough time to grow a conscience. And if you do happen to get cold feet, my client will throw your daughter right back into the Sanctuary slums she came from, and you’ll never see your sweet little girl again.”

  A security guard strolled around the corner and stopped. “Everything okay over here, gentlemen?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” Kendall said, slapping Vance on the shoulder. “Right, Vance?”

  Vance flashed a stiff smile.

  The guard gave them a suspicious look, but ambled on.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Kendall said, walking away, but halfway across the waiting room, he spun around. “One more thing, Vance, go home and take a shower. You smell like a rat.”

  10

  Nathan approached the fence surrounding the Quadrant Three Hospital and spotted the gang of bearded roughnecks loitering half a block from the entrance. No eye contact, he reminded himself as he ambled past them gripping his guitar case.

  Two of them pulled their UV hoods low over their foreheads. They stepped forward and blocked his path.

  Nathan tried to keep his voice calm. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  “You’ve been here a lot lately,” the biggest one said. “Who are you seeing in that hospital?”

  “None of your business. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  He grabbed Nathan’s right arm and squeezed hard, quickly cutting off the blood supply. Nathan grunted. The guitar case fell to the ground with a thud.

  Another grabbed his left arm and flashed a knife. “Open your mouth and you die. Understand?”

  The men dragged Nathan into the nearest alley, covering his mouth. He managed to wrangle the brute’s hand away for a second and yell, “Help!”

  They tackled him to the ground, one with the knife to his throat, the other with a blade to his thumb. "We want your LifeTracker chip,” the one with the knife growled.

  With both of them on top of him now, he felt the blade enter his thumb.

  Automatic gunfire rattled the air. The man with the knife collapsed onto Nathan’s chest, blood pouring from his head. The other one bolted but soon fell into the dirt, his body motionless.

  Nathan shoved his assailant’s limp body off of his chest and stumbled to his feet as two military officers ran up to him.

  His hands were shaking. His heart pounding.

  “Are you okay?” the shorter officer asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nathan said, voice trembling. Blood ran down his UV jacket. “One had a knife to my neck, but I don’t think he had the chance to use it.”

  The taller officer held out an ID scanner. “Identification please.”

  With his hand quivering, he tried his best to press his bleeding thumb against the screen.

  “Kansas City Barrier, huh?” the taller officer said. “Where are you headed, Mr. Gallagher?”

  Nathan waited a long minute for his pulse to slow. “To the hospital…I was headed into the hospital to see my son.”

  “We’ll escort you. There’s a washroom inside the lobby. You can clean up in there.”

  He followed them, picking up his guitar case along the way. People stopped and stared as they went through the double-doors.

  As Nathan cleared security, the shorter officer pulled out a satellite phone and reported the incident, ordering someone to dispose of the corpses before the scorpions did.

  “You were lucky, Mr. Gallagher," the taller officer said. “Four LifeTracker homicides have been reported since yesterday—you could have easily been the fifth.”

  Nathan stumbled through the hospital lobby, his stomach lurching. He found the washroom and dashed to a brown-stained sink. He leaned over and vomited, then wiped his mouth on his jacket sleeve and studied his reflection in the mirror. What a horrific sight. Sweaty brown hair matted to his temples. Blotches of blood on his cheeks. He ran the faucet at maximum and only a trickle flowed out. He put his palms underneath and splashed lukewarm water on his face and forehead until the blood finally disappeared.

  He looked in the mirror again and exhaled. You’re going to get yourself killed, he thought. Is that what you want? To make Sarah a widow? To make her finish the fight for Ian’s life on her own?

  He ripped off his UV jacket and stuffed it under the faucet. If he didn’t need it to leave Sanctuary 87, he would have pitched it then and there. As he rinsed it out, the sound of automatic gunfire echoed in his head. And how would he ever forget that blood-soaked body on his chest? He’d covered lots of grotesque crime stories over the years, but he'd never been the intended victim.

  Twenty minutes later, the last of the blood trickled down the drain, but his thumb still throbbed. Nathan exited the hospital’s washroom, grabbing a bandage off a cart in the hallway before plopping onto a vacant bench in the lobby. He wrapped his thumb and buried his face in his palms, begging God to get Ian out of this dreadful place.

  Images and questions flooded his mind…yesterday’s trip to California…the bearded man with the Royals cap on the hover-rail. He was the same man Nathan had seen on the bike path in Kansas City, he was sure of it. But who was he?

  Bennie had no idea, but he seemed very interested in finding out who he was.

  And speaking of Bennie…could he be trusted? Not entirely, in Nathan’s opinion. But what could he do? Bennie was his only lead. He’d done his homework and Bennie’s story checked out: nine years in the Global Communications Task Force with his father and two decades as a senior communications engineer with NASA working Ellis Three missions. Although his father had mentioned him a time or two over the years, he had never met him until he’d shown up at his father’s memorial service.

  Nathan took a deep breath trying to clear his mind. He grabbed his guitar case and descended into the bowels of the hospital. He entered the Post Treatment Wing and down the dark hallway toward Ian’s room, passing his doctor. They'd have another chat shortly.

  He met Angelina exiting Ian’s room.

  “I tried to get him to eat his lunch, but I only managed to get three bites in him. All he wanted to do was sleep. I’ll be back in a couple hours to turn him over to his other side.”

  She hustled off as Nathan entered the room.

  All the lights were off but the television in the corner was blaring. Black Ghost still had not communicate
d with Space Traffic Control, a news anchor reported. The World Defense Committee was moving forward with launching a deep space missile.

  Nathan fumbled for a light switch in the dark, knocking a box off the countertop. He flipped on a single fluorescent bulb that surged and lit, revealing several dozen syringes scattered all over the floor.

  “Dad, you scared me,” Ian said, his eyes following a syringe as it rolled across the floor.

  “Mind if we watch something else?” Nathan asked.

  He kicked the box aside and barked a command at the television. Nothing happened. The news anchor went on, commenting that the World Defense Committee’s recent decision closely aligned with public consensus. Chairman Alkott was handling the situation with candor and authority. He’d risen from an obscure policy maker in the Intergovernmental Congress to a world figure in a matter of months. Would he be a possible candidate in next year’s first election for World Advisor? Time would tell.

  “Dad…what if they find out that the people on Black Ghost are friendly? Are they still going to blow them up?"

  “I'm not sure, Ian. How about we talk about something else, okay?"

  “The doctor's going to kill me, isn’t he, dad?”

  Nathan grabbed his son’s hand. “Nobody’s going to kill you, Ian. Don’t talk like that.”

  “But if Gramps doesn’t fix me, the doctor is going to kill me like he killed Cynthia, isn’t he?”

  Nathan turned and shouted at the television, “ESPN…volume down.”

  Nothing.

  “It’s one of those old pre-flare televisions,” Ian said. “It doesn’t listen to you. You have to operate it with that remote over there.” He glanced at the banana crate beside his bed.