I looked over his shoulder. The file had a stamp on it – Security Level A-3. The text was dry and impersonal – a government report. Something about economic projections. I took the opportunity to scan the room.
From the position and number of network outlets, I could see that the room at one point had been a computer room. One wall had been repainted recently. Now the room was full of filing cabinets that were labeled from #1 to #125. None were locked. The filing cabinets were shiny new. The code labels on each cabinet were new. The file folder that the man had withdrawn was new.
I floated up to a corner of the room and lay back in my sky-sling watching the man. I shouldn’t have done that. Shortly afterwards, he slipped his brain-band off, scratched the back of his head, and then put it back on. I looked away from him after that.
After fifteen-minutes or so, the man put the file back in the cabinet, went to the door, and knocked on it three times. He put his key in the lock on his side of the door and I guess the guards did the same. He said “Now” quite clearly and I assume that the guards turned their key at that time. Then, he turned the lights out and the door shut behind him.
On this first trip, I had wanted only to determine how to get in and out. Now that I knew where this room was, Izzy’s idea of using the venting would give me access on my next visit. I’d be able to determine from the glow of the lights if someone was in the room and the routine at the door would give me ample warning before someone entered. All I needed now was to find a way out of the building; that would also give me the way back in.
I lifted a ceiling tile and slipped into the air duct system – closing my sling around me first in case there were cameras. Thanks, Izzy.
You’re welcome, Will. Slowly; carefully; it’s easy to lose focus when you think you’re safe.
She was right. I had thought I was home free. I found the first camera when I reached the outside wall. You were right, Izzy.
Thought there might be cameras now. Where to?
Exit to the roof might be possible.
They’ll think that too. Try going down.
The air ducts gave me access to each floor. Each floor had four cameras in the venting – one at each outside wall. I could drop out of the venting into a hallway or office on any of these floors, but there was a certain amount of risk involved because of the crowded hallways. Using this route to get back into the air ducts was also risky for the same reason.
I found the staff cafeteria with its high ceiling on the mezzanine floor. It was a wide-open space with no locked doors, no guards, and probably little traffic at certain times of the day. I waited until the cafeteria was empty, pulled up a tile, and slid into the smell of badly cooked food. A set of stairs led to the ground floor. I left as soon as I could do so safely, returned to my camp, and started putting together what I would need for a long stay in the building.
As long as I was patient, I could get in and out of the DPS building without too much risk. But, I didn’t want to tempt fate with repeated visits. I figured I’d just camp in the building. With 125 filing cabinets I might need a lot of time, so I planned on a four-week stay. I could afford to take all the time I wanted. I had already learned some interesting facts. This senior DPS executive’s gold brain-band was a fake. Although I couldn’t prove it from just this one incident, it was clear to me that the executives running the IOF did so with their emotions fully intact and with no brain zap controls whatsoever over their actions. That made me even more determined to read every single piece of paper I could find.
# # # # # # # #
From Izzy's journals: Monday, October 16, 5 days to the wedding.
I didn’t need to avoid Doc; he was avoiding me too. Fine by me. I was finding it difficult enough to do this; didn’t need him badgering me to run away. Grandmother wouldn’t have run away; neither will I. I didn’t need Grandmother’s picture frowning at me for the rest of my life.
Wannabee’s wife must have tattled about my midnight excursion. Phlegm came to see me; told me that people were talking about my great teaching. He wanted more students in my school but the camp was not set up for children. My cabin would be available soon, but they’d need time to make it into a small dorm. Since I’d be living in his cabin in five-days, why didn’t I move in with him now?
I resisted at first and then gave in to his overwhelming logic. After all, what was good for the movement was good for me. However, I insisted on separate bedrooms until after the wedding.
Phlegm said that the visitor bedroom happened to be available.
“Oh, really? Well, OK. I’ll move my things in tonight.”
My trap was now in place. Thanks, Will.
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Chapter 20
From Izzy's journals: Tuesday, October 17, 4 days to the wedding.
Dissidents were drifting into camp for the glorious wedding. I was in my white skin to reassure them that the master race was being saved. Phlegm was kept busy meeting and greeting; I got to be on the tour. Lucky me! I encouraged Phlegm to take lots of pictures of the guests so that I could make a wedding album; painted a picture of us sitting by the fire when we were old and gray, reminiscing about the wedding. Gag! Was worth it; Phlegm agreed. I knew he wouldn’t want to disappoint his little lady so close to her big event. Double gag! I also mentioned that the steady stream of guests into my class was disruptive. Why not proclaim a wedding holiday for the students? Phlegm was happy that I was getting into the spirit of the event; gave the girls the week off; also used his pinky computer to take lots of shots of me with my beloved short, pudgy Clem and his perpetual stubble beard and the long strands of hair trying to hide his balding head. Be still, my stomach!
The guests liked my red hair; a few said that I looked like my grandmother; wish they wouldn’t do that.
During lunch, Doc asked for another meeting. I told him I was busy tonight, which was true. I’ll be breaking into Phlegm’s room and hiding my pinky computer.
I had to assume that tonight’s plan was going to work – I had no other fallback options. But, if it worked, what then? Knowing that Phlegm was the informant and proving it were two different things. I still couldn’t think of any way to confront Phlegm and win. Some creativity was desperately needed! I thought best in the woods.
Wannabee refused to let me leave camp; said the risks were too high. I didn’t argue; I just stared at him and said nothing!
Eventually, Wannabee looked away and then said that he might be able to break the rules, but only if I stayed real close to him; emphasized real close; then winked. I didn’t want to walk down that path; however, I needed this too much. I promised Wannabee a kiss at the end of an hour in woods; he could pick where we went. The kiss will be on his cheek but he doesn’t know that yet.
Will? Where are you Will?
I saw Will in a big, dark room full of filing cabinets. He was totally engrossed in reading some papers from a file folder with the help of his pinky ring light. I called several times but he still didn’t hear me.
This was stupid! Why was I inventing this? Will would hear me if I pretended that he could hear me. Will, I need your help again.
Will looked up at me. That was better. His whiskers were covering more of his face now. Izzy, you are completely and totally losing it. What does it matter what Will looks like now? You’re only playing this game so that you can try and put yourself in Will’s place and imagine what he would do. Concentrate!
I didn’t try to picture Will at all; used voice-only pretend. Will, I need your help again.
Sure, Izzy.
There, that was better. I told him everything I could think of that might help. Will, I’m so close but I don’t see how I can confront Phlegm and win. What should I do?
I saw an image of a chessboard in my mind and heard Will’s voice. Which chess piece is Phlegm?
The black queen. The most powerful piece.
You win when the black KING is captured.
; # # # # # # # #
From Izzy's journals: Wednesday morning, October 18, 3 days to the wedding.
My plan required me to have access to Phlegm’s pinky-ring. I couldn’t afford to take the chance that Phlegm wore it to bed, so I invented the farce of the wedding album so that he’d take a ton of pictures. Pictures take lots of juice and that means Phlegm will recharge his battery tonight. I’ll keep up the pressure for pictures so that he’ll have to recharge every night.
My peephole gave me a good view of Phlegm’s bedroom and I watched him place his pinky-ring in the charger before going to bed. Nighty-night, Phlegm.
When I was sure Phlegm was in a deep sleep, I removed the wall panel and slipped into his room. It took only seconds to switch the setting on the battery charger so that it was discharging, activate the audio record function on my pinky computer, and hide it near his charger. I returned to my room, replaced the panel, and resumed the breathing I hadn’t known I had stopped. It was too risky for me to sleep – I didn’t know when Phlegm might wake up. So, I told Will what I had done and thought about the king.
# # # # # # # #
I was waiting at the peephole when Phlegm slipped his computer onto his finger. Hearing him swear, I assumed that he had just tried a mental command to his computer. The command wouldn’t have worked with a discharged battery, but he didn’t know that yet. I listened intently for Phlegm to give the verbal command to his computer. Success!
Phlegm looked confused. His mental command hadn’t worked; now, his oral command hadn’t worked either. He leaned over the battery charger and peered at the switch. I heard yet another spewing of curse words and then he reversed the switch, put his ring back in charger, and left the bedroom.
I waited until Phlegm entered the mess tent before nipping into his bedroom and retrieving my pinky-ring. I refastened the panel and then tried to catch some sleep. My early mornings were going to be busy from now until the glorious event. Getting Phlegm to cancel school for the week was good for camp morale, right? It certainly was good for mine!
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Chapter 21
From Izzy's journals: Wednesday evening, October 18, 3 days to the wedding.
Doc sat down with me in the mess hall; insisted on a meeting tonight. I wanted a meeting too; planned to tell him that Phlegm was almost in my trap; plus, I had thought of a way to capture the king. I needed Doc’s help to make it all work; hoped he wouldn’t get mad at me again.
# # # # # # # #
I was stewing in Doc’s office chair while he paced in circles around me. He wasn’t talking. Just pacing. Not looking at me. Just pacing. Perhaps, not even aware I was there. Just pacing.
I couldn’t ask him for help. Obviously he had all the stress he could handle; still enough time to revise the plan?
Doc’s pacing was getting him even more agitated so I grabbed an arm and pushed him gently into my chair; kneeled in front of him and held his shaking hands; mimed taking big breaths; waited for him to calm down. It didn’t work. Doc wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Talk to me Doc,” I pleaded. “Please.”
“I prepared a speech,” he said in a husky voice. He pushed himself out of the chair, took a thick brown envelope from his desk, and put it in my hand. The first page was a shiny colour picture of grandmother. I had never seen this picture before; looked up at him; "Doc?" I asked.
Doc took a big breath and blurted. “Melissa, I knew your grandmother. I killed her.” Then, he fled into his private room and shut the door. I heard it lock.
# # # # # # # #
The envelope had lots of pictures of grandmother and I looked at them first. She was a beautiful woman; pictures showed her smiling and laughing. I went through the well-worn pictures several times.
In the bottom of the envelope I found a bot containing video clips that were the source of the pictures. I closed my eyes and watched numbly as the image of a tall, slender woman with flaming red hair appeared in my brain and walked towards me. Grandmother was wearing her bright emerald green coat and carrying her protest sign – Babies should be born, not manufactured. She was in a Calgary city park in bright sunshine – I could see the skyscrapers in the background. Nobody else was around. I stared as she walked right up to me, lifted her free hand, and I could feel it touching my shoulder. She had freckles just above the tip of her nose. I could see the blueness of her eyes. “Remember your promise,” grandmother said to me.
I heard someone say, “Don’t go.” It was Doc’s voice, sort of.
“I have to,” Grandmother said. “Please don’t make this harder.”
The bot was silent for a long time. Grandmother just stared at me and said nothing.
“I could protect you.” Definitely Doc’s voice.
Grandmother said, “You promised,” and she waited. I found myself squirming under her gaze.
“I won’t join the march.” A low voice, struggling to get the words out.
“I’ll be safe. You’ll see.”
Then, grandmother got very close and I could see the side of her face and a tiny sparkle from an earring. I felt her kiss me on my left cheek and I placed my hand there to stop it from slipping away. I heard a snuffle – not sure if it was Doc or me. Then, grandmother did a little five-finger waggle at me, turned around, and walked away, her sign held high in the air defiantly.
Then, I couldn’t see her any more. When I opened my eyes, Doc’s office became very misty; gave up trying to see; gave up trying to hold myself together too.
# # # # # # # #
From Izzy's journals: Wednesday evening continued.
Doc had included a handwritten letter to me in the envelope.
I learned that he was seventeen and a second year med student when my grandmother died. She had been his high school literature teacher. He had had a huge crush on her and he could tell that she liked him, but not in the same way. After graduating, he joined the dissident movement to be near her. He knew that nothing would ever come of it. Doc was a skinny aboriginal kid from the slums; she was 8 years older and a beautiful, married white woman. On top of that, she was a single mom – her husband had deserted her and her child when she had joined the dissident movement. Doc never declared his feelings. She was aware how he felt, but both knew that it was impossible. Society was full of violent bigots at the time. Just being on the streets with her was dangerous for both of them.
Grandmother insisted that she had to attend the rally. The protests were getting ugly and the DPS had responded by sending in their uniformed goon squads. She said that protesting peacefully was a guaranteed right; passive resistance would be allowed. Doc tried and tried to persuade her not to go. She told him that she was finding it hard enough to do this and asked him to stop badgering her. Doc refused. They fought. They stayed away from each other for several days.
The night before the rally, Grandmother snuck into Doc’s dorm to ask for his help. She told him that she was frightened. She knew that she might be beaten during the march; perhaps imprisoned; possibly tortured for information. Even if it meant her death, she said she had to protest. Then, she quoted part of a Dylan Thomas poem she had taught him in school. “Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Doc said he would rage with her; she refused, absolutely. She told him that he was a true friend, but she wouldn’t allow him to risk his life because she felt compelled to do something. She asked him to make her a kill-me pill so that she wouldn’t be able to tell the DPS about him if she were tortured. She never mentioned the other dissidents. She had always thought of them as a bunch of psychotic wackos.
Doc made her a suicide pill disguised as a crown for a back tooth. If she crushed it, the poison would be in her system in seconds. He built it so that it would take a deliberately strong bite to break the crown.
Grandmother asked Doc for two promises. One – that he would not walk in the rally; two – if the worst happened, that he would keep an eye on
her daughter. She gave him an antique silver locket to pass on to her when she was older.
Doc watched the protest march from the safety of the side streets. The DPS was in the square in force. When the protestors began to march, the DPS charged into the crowd on horseback, swinging clubs at everyone. Doc saw my grandmother standing still, the only one not running. Her sign was still upright, but with its base on the ground and the post leaning up against the side of her coat. Her hands were in the air. A DPS man trotted by, stood up in his saddle, and brought his club down on her face. It caught her jaw line by the suicide crown. As she went down, Doc saw her grab the sign to hold it upright. She raised her other hand weakly in the direction where he was hiding, perhaps by accident, perhaps not. Then, her hands and the sign fell.
It took Doc several years before he was able to catch up with my mother. He had finished his medical training and was deemed important enough now to be in the dissidents’ main camp. By then, my mother was a raging supremacist and beyond hope. He never mentioned grandmother to her. He couldn’t. Dear mother would never believe that her mother could have been a friend of a despised aboriginal, whether he showed her the pictures on the bot or not.
Doc stayed in the main camp after that, doing what he could to advance grandmother’s moderate philosophy. He thought of leaving several times, but I had come along. He had failed with her daughter, but Doc promised himself that he would keep her granddaughter safe.
I Got'cha! Page 16