Project- Heritage

by Rob Horner

  The call didn’t go through immediately. Instead there was a distant whine, like a low-volume version of an old dial-up modem’s initial connection noise. Two short beeps followed, which indicated the recipient of the call was in the office. Three beeps would have meant hang up and try again later. Silence after the beeps. A phone would be ringing in the director’s office right now, but it might be a while before it was picked up. The director would want to ensure privacy.

  So long as the silence reigned, Agent Travers had to stand there and keep the phone plastered to his head, waiting on the director’s pleasure. While he waited, his eyes searched the streets, wary of any sign of approaching police vehicles. They were only a quarter mile or so from where they’d abandoned the Mustang; even the over-worked and understaffed Virginia Beach Police Department would eventually find the vehicle and begin searching.

  Agent Kirkson returned from the store carrying two bottles of water. Travers accepted one, giving Kirkson a raised pinkie to indicate an agency call.

  After almost five full minutes of waiting, the phone was answered.

  “Yes.”

  “Hello, D. It’s S.A.T.”

  “You’d better have a damned good explanation why I’m catching heat from the U.S.N. and the V.B.P.D.” Though the words were fierce, the director’s tone was not.

  Travers had seen the man dressing down agents for misconduct and debriefing congressman on national television. No matter the occasion, his volume never changed and his inflection never wavered. A person would go crazy trying to read anything into his facial expressions or his voice. Buck was very glad he’d never agreed to play poker with him.

  “Per protocol, please inform which to address first,” Agent Travers said.

  “There’s an S.A. found D.F.O. Know anything about that?”

  While most people could surmise the meaning of D.O.A., D.F.O. would confuse them. In agency parlance, it meant Done Fell Out, and during calls like this was an acceptable substitution for Dead On Arrival.

  “The S.A. in question revealed classified intelligence to a subject. It’s available for perusal,” Travers answered, meaning there were recordings to back up his statement. “I also know that S.A.F. abandoned his post, which may have precipitated X-104’s involvement with X-22.”

  “If you run into S.A.F., you may discuss this with him at your discretion. I also have a U.S.N.C. in the hospital.”

  “Accidental. He attempted to disarm me while engaged with X-22.” This was a tricky part. Captain Ortega could refute that, and while Travers had a record as an efficient agent, he was not authorized to simply shoot his way out of any and every situation. There could still be repercussions here.

  The director moved on to the next item, a good sign. Further questioning about any individual incident would mean an investigation.

  “There is also the matter of S.A.B. under guard in another hospital.”

  “S.A.B. was injured by X-22 during attempted apprehension. It was after he fell that I tried to stop X-22 with force, and the C. grabbed me.” That was a good question; it gave Agent Travers a chance to provide more background, while also allowing him to offer some mitigating circumstances for the shooting of the captain.

  “What do you need, S.A.T.?” the Director asked.

  “I have V.B.P.D. attention owing to need to break their barricade to chase after X-22 and X-104.”

  “They’re together?”

  “Yes, D.”

  “Shit. Okay, S.A.T., I suppose this has been a difficult weekend for you.”

  Only the director would know the implications, the possible dangers, posed by any two of these subjects uniting.

  “I believe they are a P.B.,” Travers added, reminding the director of Travis and Sherry’s presumed Pair-Bond status.

  “I’ll need a full debriefing of any S.N.S. you’ve witnessed at the conclusion.”

  S.N.S.? Travers didn’t know that one. But he wouldn’t let the director know of his ignorance.

  “You’ll have it. For now, I need V.B.P.D. to look away.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Thank you,” Agent Travers exhaled, breathing a sigh of relief. The police would no longer be a concern.

  “Anything else, S.A.T.?”

  “I believe all interested parties are having a gathering.”

  “Where?”

  “Illinois.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “As sure as I can be. X-104’s remaining parent was liberated from there this morning. The subjects knew to come to Watchtower. Who knows what other information they’ve uncovered? Illinois seems most logical.”

  “I’ll send transport to N.I., the usual gate.”

  “Thank you, D.” He paused a second before adding, “I also need the ability to deactivate the subjects, as a last resort.”

  “I understand your request, but such access cannot be granted. It takes a person with the right prints.”

  “The only one I know of is the C.,” Agent Travers said, then held his breath. This was the riskiest part of the conversation.

  The answer came immediately. Whatever else he was, politician, former assassin, the Director was a patriot, who saw his duty to protect the country as a reason and a license to do what was necessary. This project, always risky, could become one of the greatest threats to National Security ever imagined, if it couldn’t be controlled. “Remember, S.A.T., I cannot fix what others see.”

  “Thank you, D.”

  “Transport will be ready by sixteen hundred hours. Be on it.”

  The line went dead.

  Agent Kirkson walked up to Buck’s side as he lowered the phone. “We good?”

  “Yeah,” Travers answered. “We’re good. Got to get the unlock codes from the captain, then catch a transport to Illinois.”

  “Heh, the captain isn’t going to want to give you anything.”

  “No, we’ll take it.” He looked at his phone again, preparing to call for an Uber to take them to the nearest car rental place. “By the way, what does S.N.S. mean?”

  Kirkson jerked his head around. “The director said that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s old-school. Comes from the MKUltra era, when the agency was involved in all kinds of crazy projects, brainwashing, ghost hunting, witchcraft, even demonology and hand-held microwave guns. It means Supernatural Shit.”

  Agent Travers grunted, raising the phone to his ear. The Director wanted a report of anything supernatural, did he. That meant he expected something to happen. Maybe it already had.

  Could those two really have caused the car to shut down?

  4

  The answer—or at least the possibility of one—came to Travis while he waited on Sherry in the parking lot of the pharmacy. He forced his mind to travel in any direction but one focused on his pain, which felt as though a pack of rats had entered his shoulder and were gnawing on his torn nerve endings. It stemmed from a memory of a vision perceived during that first cataclysmic moment when they met face to face. As she searched the racks of pain killers, he searched through his memory.

  It was like being afloat on a raft, shooting along the currents of a red lake, surrounded by a red sky, to either side a red shoreline. A slow, rhythmic pulse filled the air, defining him—was it the beat of his heart, or of hers? Whose it was didn’t matter.

  Why had they been given that vision? What did it matter what happened within their bloodstreams? They’d discovered physical contact gave them extraordinary abilities. Was it stretching the realm of possibility to think that maybe, just maybe, they might have some control over their bodies as well?

  Why didn’t I think of that? Sherry’s voice asked in his head, forcing another tight smile onto his face. It was comforting to never be alone, no matter that they were physically separated.

  Can you see anything now? Sherry asked, to which Travis sent a mental negative. The only way he’d been able to conjure the vision had been through memory. Then I’ll hurry up to ge
t back to you, she promised.

  You mean you were taking your time? Travis asked.

  Damn. Caught me.

  Tired, Travis let the connection lapse. The pain was starting to fade again, becoming less important. He closed his mind to Sherry’s probing, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on the thoughts troubling him since he’d awakened.

  She was right to worry about internal bleeding. Though his shirt had stemmed the external flow of blood, he was growing weaker, his heart working harder, pumping faster, trying to perfuse all his organs and tissues with a dwindling supply of blood.

  Travis didn’t think he was imagining the dimming of his vision, or the way his thoughts were getting fuzzy, like he couldn’t concentrate. He didn’t want to trouble Sherry with the aspects of dying—which is what these symptoms signified—because she was already going to have enough on her mind trying to get back to her mother. He needed to be in a hospital, but that wasn’t an option. It would only be a temporary stay of execution.

  Well, his anyway.

  Travis smiled, fond thoughts of the time he and Sherry spent together running through his mind. A gentle burning filled his eyes as tears fell down his cheeks. Soft sobs shook his frame, not hard enough to increase his pain.

  He cried for the beauty of what they’d shared, and with regret for the things they never would. He couldn’t even find her with his mind now; the concentration required was beyond him. More tears leaked out of his eyes as his lids fluttered closed. The pain was gone, though he still felt the ache in his heart.

  What could they have had, if only this hadn’t happened?

  I love you, Sherry.

  5

  Sherry wasted no time in the store, quickly selecting three different painkillers—aspirin, ibuprofen, and acetaminophen—just in case Travis might prefer one to the other. She grabbed two large bottles of water and two smaller bottles of orange juice, then headed for the check-out counter. The drugstore must have decided to employ the only non-church-going grandmother in all of Virginia Beach. Even though her butt wasn’t parked in a pew, the septuagenarian still needed to talk with every patron, asking after family members, inquiring whether they wanted to use their ExtraCare cards. If they didn’t have one, did they want to sign up? Three people in front of her, and she’d be lucky to check out in less than fifteen minutes.

  Nervously, she waited in line, sending a reassuring thought to Travis to beg his patience.

  She received nothing but silence.

  He might have fallen unconscious again, which wasn’t good, but wasn’t necessarily bad. With a bit more anxiety, she tried again to touch his mind.

  Still nothing.

  He hadn’t been able to converse with her during most of the drive away from Oceana. But she’d been able to get imagines from him, as in when seeking a way to navigate the roads and elude her pursuers. Now, attempting to discover whether his sleep was natural or due to his injury, she avoided conversation and went searching for whatever was turning through his mind.

  There was nothing.

  It wasn’t as if he was so deeply unconscious that he dreamed nothing.

  It was like he wasn’t there at all.

  Sherry screamed, drawing the attention of everyone in the store. The medicine boxes and the bottles of water and juice fell to the floor as she bolted for the exit. Her heart made the connection before her mind could; she understood what the lack of a mental presence meant.

  She just refused to accept it.

  He couldn’t be gone.

  No way.

  The electric doors opened too slowly. She pushed between them as soon as they were spread enough to allow passage, knocking one loose from its track.

  A car honked at her as she darted in front of it.

  She didn’t jump, slow, or turn, but ran straight for the blue Focus with its tinted windows. Travis was a dark silhouette slumped against the passenger glass.

  “Please, oh God, oh no, please, not this,” she whispered, unaware she was making any sounds at all.

  She’d left the keys in the ignition and the air conditioner running. It meant her door was unlocked; no fumbling this time.

  Jerking it open, she dropped into the driver’s seat so fast her knee struck the steering wheel, sending a jolt of pain she didn’t feel up her left leg.

  Travis’s head was turned away from her, as though watching for her return.

  Gently, fearful of hurting him but still receiving that horrifying feeling of…nothingness…from his mind, she reached out for his left shoulder.

  She intended to shake him, to rouse him if possible. But as soon as she made contact, she knew it wouldn’t be enough.

  The lights came to life in her vision, but they were dim, so very dim, fading noticeably as she watched.

  Unwanted tears burned behind her eyes. Sobs threatened to wrench themselves out of her if she didn’t give voice to them immediately.

  She forced both discomforts away, concentrating only on the lights, that they existed. If they were still in her vision, then power remained in Travis’s body.

  If there was power, there had to be life.

  It wasn’t too late.

  She wasn’t too late.

  He was breathing, but it was fast and shallow.

  He had a pulse, but it was fast, and seemed weak.

  His last words returned to her, echoing through her memory.

  If only.

  Was it possible?

  Only one way to find out.

  Closing her eyes, Sherry went in search of a miracle.

  6

  Another phone call, this time placed from the backseat of a newer model Chevy Impala, while Agent Kirkson sat on his right and a pretty blond drove them to an Enterprise Rent-A-Car on Virginia Beach Boulevard.

  “Hello?”

  “Stan Frazier, how the heck are you?”

  “Um…all right, I guess.”

  “You know who this is?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” Travers said, keeping a toothy smile plastered on his face. Too many white people, especially white women, harbored a natural aversion to large black men like himself. The politically correct, easily offended, milk-dud, beta-male Millennials would have people believe this constituted a kind of subconscious racism. To Agent Travers, it was the inherited fear prey animals have around a predator. They could sense it in him, no matter how he smiled or how softly he spoke, that capacity for violence, the inherent power to do them harm.

  “I’d like to request a reassignment,” Agent Frazier said, all in a rush.

  Agent Travers forced himself to keep smiling, “You’re supposed to do that before you walk away from your current job. You know that, yes?”

  “I…I just—”

  “It’s all right, Stan, take it easy. We can make this right.”

  Beside him, Kirkson chuckled softly. He’d never liked Agent Frazier.

  “What do you need, sir?”

  “I need you to do a couple of things for me, Stan. First, I want you to find out which hospital my friend, Captain Manuel Ortega of the US Navy, was taken to after his accident at NAS Oceana.”

  “All right, I’m writing this down.”

  “Good, you do that. I’ll also need you to swing by the office and grab a bottle of our most succulent wine, some appropriate attire for visiting a hospital, as well as some way to make sure we know his fingers got a hold of the bottle.”

  There was a pause. “Succulent, sir?”

  “Yes of course, Stan. The kind that leaves a lasting impression.”

  “I…all right, sir.”

  “Good, call me back once you know where he is, and please already be on your way to meet us there.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  7

  The first time it happened had been an accident, a flash of power neither Sherry nor Travis knew they possessed, a brief merging of spirit and flesh as their dormant abilities surged to life. Sherry wasn’t sure how to repeat the process or how to cont
rol it, assuming she could repeat it.

  But desperation lent her courage and love gave her strength.

  Their strange connection gave her the power.

  With her eyes closed, she listened for his heart, for the double-beat which meant life still pumped within his arteries. She heard it, beating a double-time counterpoint to her own, two physically separate parts which signified their bond better than any mental connection.

  The scene came to life in her mind—the red sea, red sky, the floating/bobbing sensation of being tossed about on a raft navigating frothing rapids. The first time it happened, she’d heard his heartbeat—and her own—beating strongly. Their worlds throbbed with power. This time the sound was faint, almost beyond hearing.

  Forcing the power to obey her, Sherry sought the source of the beating, needing, demanding, for it to grow louder.

  Whether his heart responded to her demands or because she was now moving in the right direction and drawing closer, Sherry couldn’t be sure, but the beat grew louder. The walls of the tunnel began to vibrate with the force of his pulse. She was traveling through one of his veins on the way to his heart. This was the tunnel of his life and what she found at its end would determine his fate.

  And her own.

  Sherry had no doubt about what would happen to her if Travis died. There was no way she could continue to live a life devoid of this connection. She wouldn’t be able to go on.

  Better to die, to waste away, than to live a life denied this most intimate of communications.

  Sherry sensed an opening, a widening, in the tunnel before her. It was not as if any light could intrude within this place, yet there was light of a sort. Though tinged with red, Sherry knew these were the chemical-electrical pulses that drove Travis’s body under the gentle but irresistible control of his brain.

  Like the lights that appeared when she touched his shoulder, this light was also dimming, allowing darkness to encroach upon his interior world.