Project- Heritage

by Rob Horner

  Sherry couldn’t help but smile at the compliment. “Thanks, AT2. I like it here.”

  She grabbed her purse from its place under the worktable and headed out of her aisle. The Chief’s desk was empty, as was the Leading Petty Officer’s. Apparently, a lot of people took late lunches on Fridays. Oh well, so long as the privilege was shared. She waved to Petty Officer Harmon at the production desk, her mind on her upcoming lunch, and headed for the door.

  As she reached out to grasp the doorknob, a weird feeling filled her. It was stronger this time, reaching deeper inside, a shock as of an electric current, a feeling as of recognition.

  Not again.

  Slowly, losing herself to the tingling sensation spreading throughout her five-three frame, Sherry turned her head to the left. As soon as her eyes fell on AT2 Wilkins the feeling intensified—a connection made—and a soft gasp escaped her lips.

  Then she saw:

  Lines of current, shooting through wires, passing resistors, capacitors, diodes, relays, flowing in a smooth blue line to one component that was…

  The vision faded as Wilkins jumped away from the bench, like he’d been shocked, or like it turned into a snake about to strike.

  Did he see that too?

  Did he feel these strange things?

  What the hell was it?

  He turned his head toward her, and she knew.

  He wasn’t looking for her.

  He knew she was standing there.

  Their eyes locked for the second time, blue meeting green. Sparks danced through her vision, electrifying her with the contact. Something…somehow…she felt a bond taking form, striking deep into the core of her being.

  No…that wasn’t right.

  This wasn’t the forming of a bond.

  It was…a repairing…a re-establishing.

  Like a piece of equipment, she felt a circuit being completed, only a few more solder lines left to fill. The growing connection satisfied a deep-seated need she hadn’t realized existed. For the first time, no thoughts raced through her mind. There were no doubts about her decisions, no worries for the future.

  There was just this empty—yet somehow full—silence that stretched across the yards separating them.

  Then Wilkins blinked, breaking the…whatever it was. The world snapped back into focus. She hastily turned away, scared to death of feeling that—connection—again, yet aching for it, needing it, and even more afraid of those feelings. Not allowing herself time to think, driven to escape, she completed her motion, grasping the doorknob and wrenching the door open.

  In the next heartbeat, she was out the door, hurrying down the corridor.

  I can’t still feel his eyes, can I?

  But she could. She could feel them searching for her as she made her way out of the AIMD building.

  2

  “Captain Ortega?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Lieutenant Barnes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is the line secure?”

  “Hold on.”

  A minute series of soft clicks sounded over the line.

  “All right,” Captain Ortega said, a hint of Spanish in his pronunciation, but cultivated, as though the senior officer tried to maintain ties to his heritage despite having grown out of his accent.

  “There have been several developments, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “X-22 has been experiencing dreams the past three nights, sir, which may not seem important, but I’ve had Chief Davis review the videos, especially the timestamps, and all three nights he has woken up at 2:14am.”

  “Is there a significance to that time?” Captain Ortega asked.

  “I don’t have access to his full file, so I don’t know for sure. I would think just waking up three nights in a row at the same time is significant in and of itself, sir.”

  “Good point. I’ll have someone review for correlation. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. His dreams began the night after X-104 presented to the command,” Barnes said.

  “Interesting, but not wholly unexpected, Lieutenant.”

  “If you say so, sir. I’ve not been fully briefed on this aspect of the project.”

  “For which there’s a good reason, Lieutenant. I won’t have you chasing ghosts looking for specifics. Remember the Hawthorne Effect, wherein the subjects of observation will change their behavior because they know they’re being observed. In the original study, worker productivity in the Hawthorne Works factory in Chicago increased because the workers knew they were being studied.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m aware of the sociological theory. It’s very similar to the observer effect noted in physics.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant. But what Landsberger didn’t comment on in his original study was the change in worker production prompted a change in the observer’s pattern of study.” The captain’s voice stayed firm, but the accent faded away completely as he adopted a lecturing tone. “In other words, if you were aware of all the reactions, both actual and theoretical, that could result from the interaction of X-22 and X-104, you would not be able to sit back and observe. You would find ways to interject yourself into the interaction, directly or through subordinates, to either disrupt or facilitate the interaction, causing its disruption.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I’m not finished, Lieutenant.” That tone brooked no argument. “This is the very reason we partitioned this part of the project into limited-knowledge groups. This interaction must occur organically. It’s why I’m here in D.C. and far away from any pairings, relying on second- and sometimes third-hand information from trusted and vetted sources like yourself.”

  Lieutenant Barnes didn’t know whether to feel offended or praised. He’d been shut down like a talkative seven-year old, only to be called trusted a moment later.

  “Now, what about X-104? Have there been any anomalies reported about her?” The accent had returned; the instructor was finished lecturing and the Captain was back, expecting obedience.

  “Something may have occurred today, reported by her chief, but it’s questionable.”

  “Go on.”

  “He says that he witnessed her zone out for a moment.”

  “Zone out?” The captain’s tone sounded like he was tasting the words, trying them out.

  “The way he described it, sir, it sounded like an absence seizure.”

  “When and where did this occur?”

  “It was as she entered the work center. The chief was right behind her.”

  “All right, and where was X-22?”

  “Very close by, if I understand the layout properly. There might have been visual contact.”

  “Did he exhibit any reaction?”

  “The chief didn’t say. I got the impression he couldn’t actually see X-22 from his position, Captain.”

  “And has there been any other contact between the two? Any conversations?”

  “None reported, sir.”

  “Very good. And has X-104 had any disturbing dreams?”

  “Again, none reported, sir.”

  “All right. Maintain surveillance for now. Bring in Agents Bassett and Frazier; they have a vested interest in this. Tell them to watch for any suspicious behavior, any conversation threads that seem out of place. It wouldn’t be remiss, especially for Frazier, to try to engage in conversation for once, draw the subject out.”

  “Consider it done, sir,” Lieutenant Barnes said. A moment later, the line went dead.

  3

  Sherry’s appetite had deserted her by the time she walked the four blocks to McDonald’s. There’d been too much strangeness today. She felt as though her world was expanding beyond the bounds of what she knew as reality while simultaneously imploding, crashing in around her, threatening to crush her. How did you reconcile a life of complete normalcy with one of strange visions and voices in your head? Is this what her aunt went through?

  Sitting by herself in the almost-empty establishment, B
ig Mac untouched, fries cold and congealing in their own grease, she tried to analyze what she’d experienced, but the very things that made the experiences so odd also defied her powers of logic. It couldn’t be anything as simple as attraction, because no matter how good Travis Wilkins looked, no matter that everything about him seemed to be her ideal—size, build, hair—nothing could explain hearing those thoughts or seeing those lines.

  Besides, she was happily married, completely in love with and devoted to her husband. She’d seen a lot of men with Travis’s physical characteristics walking around Virginia Beach, and none of them struck her like this. Aside from his looks, she knew nothing about him as a person. Was he honest? Was he gentle? She’d never gone gaga for a man based solely on his looks. She’d never even thought about a second date until getting a good feel for how a man thought and acted on the first.

  No matter how much she tried to kid herself by using logic to disprove a physical attraction, it was just a shell game, a sort of mental obfuscation to avoid dealing with her real fear.

  This wasn’t about logic, and it wasn’t about attraction.

  Her aunt was a paranoid schizophrenic, and she remembered reading there are often familial patterns and connections to mental illness. In that light, it was easy to alter her perceptions of the reactions of those around her. It might have seemed that Travis was looking at her with a sense of wonder, sharing some ineffable experience; in reality, his gaze might have been that of a carnival freak-show patron, staring in awed amazement at the grotesquerie behind the glass, pitying yet relieved that it wasn’t him. His face may be better looking than the average customer, but that just made the humiliation greater.

  Slowly, losing herself to the tingling sensation spreading throughout her five-three frame, Sherry turned her head to the left. As soon as her eyes fell on AT2 Wilkins the feeling intensified—a connection made—and a soft gasp escaped her lips.

  Then she saw:

  Lines of current, shooting through wires, passing resistors, capacitors, diodes, relays, flowing in a smooth blue line to one component that was…

  The vision faded as Wilkins jumped away from the bench, like he’d been shocked, or like it turned into a snake about to strike.

  No, this wasn’t like her aunt. She’d felt it before looking at Travis, before even knowing he was there.

  His reaction to the experience was to jump away from the bench. It wasn’t until afterward that he turned and met her eyes, like he’d felt her presence in the same way she felt his. While she could scare herself into mentally changing the meaning of his gaze, she wouldn’t let herself change the timing. She couldn’t allow it. Better to hold onto a thread of hope than to nothing.

  So, then what? Was she living through a National Enquirer story? What next? Past lives? Unfulfilled romance through the ages?

  Sherry laughed at the thought, shaking her head.

  It was probably just a fluke, some strange confluence of the stars and planets which would never repeat itself. It might make a good episode of The Twilight Zone, if they ever decided to reboot the series.

  She promised herself she would investigate the matter further if it continued to happen. The Navy had psychiatrists; she could make a discrete call, or something. Having made her decision, Sherry rose to dispose of her uneaten lunch. She’d have to walk to her husband’s building, but first she needed to answer Nature’s call.

  As she entered the ladies’ restroom, she saw three words written on the mirror above the sink, three words which cut right to the core of her being, unleashing monstrous thoughts and unvoiced doubts.

  Her chest hitched, frozen.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  She could only stagger back and steady herself against the wall behind her.

  Written in bright red lipstick were the words:

  Your husband lies.

  4

  Sherry stared in shocked silence at the accusatory words, written in the same shade of lipstick she carried in her purse but hardly ever dared to wear, until she heard a toilet flushing in one of the two stalls. Pulling in a startled breath, her eyes darted to the sudden sound. She heard the rasp of the stall’s door-latch.

  Two distinct and opposite urges slammed through her.

  She was possessed by the almost-irresistible desire to flee the bathroom, run away from those words and the welter of emotions they produced, and try to forget she’d ever seen them. Conversely, she was certain the woman in the stall wrote on the mirror, and she had the compelling urge to confront this woman, already tried and found guilty in the court of fear.

  Torn between these two forces, Sherry remained motionless as the stall door opened, only tearing her eyes away at the last second so as not to be seen staring.

  She looked back at the mirror, and the words had changed. Now in Sharpie black, the three-word message read: Shawna loves Ja’quan.

  5

  Sherry fled the bathroom without ever seeing the other woman’s face. Head down, almost running, she didn’t stop until she found herself standing outside the glass doors of the Personnel Support Detachment building. Breathing hard, she was astonished she’d covered the entire three-block distance completely dissociated from her surroundings, with no memory of the trip.

  But there was the gray Nissan Sentra, and already her fingers were fumbling in her purse, pulling out her set of keys. She could think of nothing better than to get into the car, start the engine, turn on the air conditioning, and just sit. She didn’t want to go into Stan’s building looking for him, didn’t want to risk anymore--episodes, we’ll call them episodes--with anyone else around, and she didn’t want Stan to see her like this. No, better that she waited in the car. She needed to think. She was supposed to be calm and logical, damn it, what happened?

  Your husband lies.

  But those words weren’t real.

  So why did I see them?

  Recalling the Scarlet Letter red words again brought the sensation of a dam straining to hold back flood waters. Her heartrate picked up as the tension inside of her mounted, like water coming to a boil.

  This sensation was different from how she felt when confronted with the earlier oddities. Though frightening in a sense that she couldn’t explain them, the words and images she’d experienced in the work center had never felt threatening.

  Life-changing? Boundary-exploding?

  Maybe.

  But this…this felt like a nuclear warhead, so full of raw potential for damage and death, barely contained behind a meager coating of lead, spit, and duct tape. All she needed to do was poke a tiny hole in the shielding, and everything she knew would be changed forever.

  My marriage is perfect. My husband is perfect. I have the perfect life.

  It felt wrong, too scripted. Too much had happened today.

  Sinking down into the passenger seat—she didn’t feel capable of driving—she tried to find a way to pick at the bubble inside without popping it. Like a kid with a loose tooth, the tongue had to probe and explore. The words on the mirror were obviously a fabrication of her mind, but why were they fabricated?

  My marriage is perfect.

  But they disappeared, they changed.

  My husband is perfect.

  They changed because the hallucination, or whatever it was, ended.

  I have the perfect life.

  No, they changed because I didn’t run away. I stayed there, and the other woman came out, and I would have confronted her about them. Even if we figured out they weren’t meant for me, it would have proven their reality. But they weren’t real, and my mind knew it, so the fabrication had to end.

  Logical. Precise. Calm.

  I’m going crazy.

  Looking up, she was shocked at how normal the world looked after such a conclusion.

  Outside the Nissan, young men and women in their NWUs and ballcaps walked the sidewalks, some coming toward PSD, and some heading in the opposite direction. A few blocks away, the bells of the church began to ring. Cars p
assed by on Tomcat Boulevard, driving a respectful thirty-five miles per hour. A tall man in a khaki uniform walked by the front of the car, and the young sailors in their NWUs proffered salutes to him, which he returned.

  Crazy people don’t doubt their sanity.

  This thought, more than the normalcy of the day outside the car, helped Sherry regain a semblance of peace. Her heart rate slowed, and she tried again to tackle her situation with logic.

  It had been a long day, with several strange things already in the record books. Disregarding for a moment their impossibility or improbability, let’s just accept that they happened, and each one added a notch on the old stress-o-meter. With that in mind, how hard would it have been for her imagination to continue the rash of enigmatic occurrences completely without her conscious knowledge?

  Someone once told her that it isn’t paranoia if everyone is out to get you.

  If you’d already experienced a string of strange things, wouldn’t it be easy to fool yourself into seeing others?

  Okay, let’s accept that possibility.

  It didn’t explain why she would imagine a message that said her husband lies.

  My marriage is perfect.

  She trusted him with all her heart and soul. He’d never done anything to betray her, and he never would.

  My husband is perfect.

  But what do you really know about him?

  Sherry tried to shy away from that question, and as always happened when she wondered about her marriage and the man she’d married, the little voice started repeating the mantra.

  My marriage is—

  This time she was able to squash the voice, resisting the temptation to relax into its comforting words.

  What did she know about Stan?

  He was sweet and considerate, though not really given to open displays of affection or sudden outbursts of romance. He was passionate enough, she supposed, but sex wasn’t often at the top of his mind.