by Rob Horner
“At this point, you have your first unqualified successes,” Lieutenant Barnes said. “And you have an installation with no idea what to do with you. Everyone had been so concerned with seeing if they could succeed that no thought had been given to the question: what do we do if we succeed? The loudest voice on the matter came from the head of security, Agent Buck Travers, who took it upon himself to ensure no one would come looking for these sailors.”
“Billy and I came back on the scene here,” Debbie said. “He intercepted several memos detailing four targets. The first two were the parents of Rebecca Waters. I was too late to save them.” Her voice dropped almost to a murmur. “When I got to their house in Austin, Texas, it had burned to the ground. The news claimed it was an electrical fire. Nothing was left. The coroner’s report said identification was made through dental records.
“I did manage to get to your parents first. As soon as Billy discovered their address, I flew to South Carolina. Naturally, they didn’t believe me. I knew that I’d managed to plant a seed of doubt, and I was certain I could convince them to leave with me after one or two more discussions. I thought I had more time.”
Debbie stopped speaking for a second, her eyes downcast. “They didn’t give me the opportunity. Someone opened fire as your mother escorted me to the door. The bullet was meant for me, I’m sure, but the agent missed.”
“Oh God,” Travis muttered.
“He hit your mother in the throat,” Brian said, his pained expression showing that time hadn’t dulled his memory of that day. “I got to her, managed to catch her before she could fall to the ground, but it was no use. She was already dead.”
“We got away,” Debbie said, then related the tale of their flight to safety. She went on to describe their subsequent work to undermine the project.
Sometime during her tale, Travis deposited Sherry back into her seat, then went to his father’s side. The two men held each other, sharing a grief that, for one, was fresh and raw, hurting worse than the bullet which shattered his shoulder, and for the other felt almost as new as he relived his own pain through his son.
Sherry reached out to Travis, offering what soothing comfort she could, feeling it accepted and appreciated. He knew she was there.
Into the moment Lieutenant Barnes said, “It was Agent Travers who shot her.”
9
“What?” Debbie exclaimed. “How do you know? We’ve never been able to find out who—””
“It’s in here,” Barnes said, patting the folder. “It’s in Ortega’s notes. Apparently, Travers grew tired of waiting for the scientists and bureaucrats to figure out what to do, so he went rogue. It cost him the cushy job of Director of Security at the installation and dropped him back down to field agent. It was a necessary change that allowed the C.I.A. to retain nominal control over the project. After this, other techniques were employed to modify the memories of the surviving subjects and their families.”
“Like faking your death,” both Sherry and Vicki said, speaking to each other.
“Indeed,” Barnes said, smiling. “The last file is a collection of bits from other files, or projects, I think. It details the methods of…ahem…brainwashing…that were used, then cross-references other projects where the methods were developed.”
“What about what happened with Travis and I?” Sherry asked.
Lieutenant Barnes shrugged. “I think this might be all that Captain Ortega could access. He could discover what led to you two coming into his sphere of influence, or observation, but he wasn’t able to learn more.”
“We can hazard a few educated guesses, though,” Debbie said.
“They gave you a husband,” Billy said to Sherry, “because they felt it would help keep you quiescent. I read in one of their reports they had a hard time keeping track of Travis.” Billy shot Travis a smile. “It said you changed girlfriends more often than some men change underwear.”
Travis blushed at the inference, sending an innocent look to Sherry, who made a comedic show of pulling her hand away.
Smiling, Debbie added, “The reports all agreed that you were principled, and the Agency was having a hard time pairing you with someone who shared those beliefs. We know now that Sherry must be Pair-Bonded to you, which explains why she was sent to Oceana, though we don’t really know why her arrival was so delayed.”
“So,” Travis said, “were they trying to make us establish a connection, or did they just want to see what would happen?”
“I wasn’t told to do anything but watch,” Lieutenant Barnes offered.
Debbie answered by once again listing some of the odd properties of the subject matter, particularly the increased gene coding and the theorized increase in mental prowess.
“In other words,” Billy finished, “you two were already bonded by numerous factors, the procedure you underwent, the tampering with your memories, and the fact that your specific…um…enhancements were a supposedly monogamous Pair prior to being placed inside of you. They wanted to see if you’d recognize each other, and then see if anything else happened.”
“They were right,” Travis said softly.
Are you ready for this? Sherry asked.
I think so, Travis replied.
You want me to do it?
No, I’ll start. But you should be ready to jump in.
Okay then.
Taking a deep breath, Travis began, “It started on Friday, I guess. I was just coming to work—”
10
“Amazing,” Debbie breathed as Travis and Sherry told their story.
“Let me get this straight,” Billy said. “You can communicate mentally. You can hear other people’s thoughts and even extract information from them like they’re a computer. You can see lines of electric current and electromagnetic transmission. And you can do things to affect them. Even better, you can force your bodies to heal themselves?”
Debbie rose from her chair and headed for the coffee pot. “That’s more than anyone hoped for.”
“It sounds impossible,” Brian said, looking at his son. “You can really do all these things?”
“Sure,” Travis said.
“Would you like a test?” Sherry offered.
“What do you suggest?” Debbie asked.
“Watch the light overhead.”
This should be fun, Travis said.
Sherry smiled. Let me do it.
Go ahead, baby.
Concentrating, Sherry followed the blue lines entering the inverted bowl-shaped light hanging over the kitchen table. With a thought, she sent a small surge into the light, causing it to brighten noticeably. She held that for a moment, hearing the astonished gasps from her audience. Then she withdrew the power, clamping down on the current, causing the light to dim as much as if it had been turned off at the switch.
Great control, Travis applauded her.
Thanks.
“Jesus!” Billy breathed.
“Believe us now?” Travis asked. “Or would you like another test?”
In the end, Travis and Sherry performed three more tests before their parents, Debbie, Billy, and Lieutenant Barnes were satisfied.
In one, Travis and Sherry were placed in separate rooms. With Debbie standing beside Sherry, and Billy standing with Travis, the married couple carried on a five-minute conversation using the younger couple as mental communicators. Travis relayed Billy’s questions to Sherry, who asked them verbally of Debbie.
The second test had Billy whisper something to Debbie, with Sherry and Travis standing far enough away that eavesdropping wasn’t possible. Travis proved the conversation had been overheard.
The final test had Sherry pluck a random fact from Debbie’s mind. Surprising them all, Sherry blurted, “You like being on top, huh?”
“All right, we’re believers!” Billy shouted, laughing as Debbie’s face turned red.
At five in the afternoon, Victoria said, “I thought someone mentioned a proposal?”
“Have you been wonder
ing about that since I said it?” Debbie asked.
“Of course.”
“Well,” Sherry said, smiling at Travis, who shared her enthusiasm, “Travis asked me to marry him.”
“That’s great!” Debbie and Billy said at once.
“Oh, baby!” Vicki said, pulling her daughter in for a hug.
“Hmph!” Brian snorted.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Travis asked.
“I thought I raised you better, that’s all.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You’re supposed to offer her a ring when you do it, and ask her mother for permission first, and oh, I don’t know, maybe date for a little while longer—”
Travis ignored his father’s teasing tone, opening his arms to the older man, who accepted the embrace.
After the group celebrated for several minutes, Brian asked, “So which will it be, Travis or Jimmy?”
“Unless I miss my guess,” Travis replied, “my name will probably change again before this is all over.”
“Is that right?” Sherry asked, turning to Debbie.
“Most likely,” Debbie answered. “That is, if you want to have any chance of living a normal life.”
“Oh, we do,” Travis said softly, “but there’s something else we have to do first.”
You’re serious, right? Sherry asked.
Yes. Are you with me?
All the way.
“What’s that?” Brian asked.
“We’ve got to visit this facility and put it out of business.”
11
It was almost seven pm by the time Agent Travers exited the elevator on the ground floor of the facility. Turning right, with fat Mr. Habet trailing him, he walked through the foyer, passing an unattended receptionist desk on the right and floor to ceiling windows on the left, which looked out on the empty parking lot. That reception desk used to be the Emergency Department registration desk, where nurses took down names, recorded initial vital signs, and manipulated patient charts, making sure the sickest patients were seen first. Though the desk was clean and polished, kept tidy by an invisible Environmental Services department, it looked abandoned and forlorn. The rooms on the other side of the wall behind the desk used to be a hive of furious activity as doctors, nurses, and aides rushed about on a million medical tasks. Those rooms were now offices for the various research staff, doctors, and other project leaders.
A young security guard walked by Travers and Habet, intent on his patrol. Travers said nothing, walking to the far end of the building. They passed a small alcove where two vending machines glowed softly, offering soft drinks to rot the kidneys or sugary snacks to rot the teeth. A narrow corridor ran off to the right, following the outline of the building. Mr. Habet shouldered past the agent at the turn, taking the lead.
A set of public restrooms opened on the left, across from a secondary entrance to the Emergency Department. A little farther on another hallway joined on the right, making a T intersection. The crossing corridor led to a back entrance into the ED and provided easy access to imaging services like X-ray, CT, and ultrasound. The old medical labs were also down that way, centrifuges still in place, ready to spin another batch of blood into the basic components that drove everyone, white blood cells, red blood cells, and electrolytes. Onward the corridor continued for another thirty feet, ending in a blank wall. The only thing differentiating the wall from a dead end was a small white rectangle mounted on the right-hand wall. It galled Travers to no end not to be able to reach out and activate the elevator to the basement. He designed this system!
Swallowing his anger, Buck waited while Habet hitched up his utility belt then reached out to place a meaty palm on the panel. Unlike the movies, there were no glowing green lights to indicate that his handprint was accepted. No musical chime accompanied the rising of the fake wall which revealed polished steel elevator doors. Likewise, there wouldn’t have been any red lights or warning alarm if an unauthorized hand touched the panel. Every security agent in the building who could be spared would have flooded the corridor behind them and turned the dead-end hallway into a killing field.
The elevators doors split in the middle and opened to left and right. The cab featured fake mahogany wood paneling for the bottom three feet, with partially reflective stainless steel for the upper five. It looked like every other elevator he’d ever ridden in except there were no floor buttons or emergency alert knobs to pull; only another of those plain hand plates to the right of the door. When Habet touched it, the doors closed, and the elevator dropped to the basement.
The basement predated the facility, though its only use had been as a temporary morgue. A large chunk of the funding for the facility had gone to renovating this space, installing side by side state-of-the-art operation/observation suites, a holding area that resembled a typical hospital nursery with rows of beds sized for adults, and a fully stocked lab capable of cutting edge manipulation of biological matter, complete with computer workstations running the latest in genetic recognition and manipulation software. The lab also featured a secure cold storage unit, where various manufactured bacterial mutagenic catalysts, such as CRISPR, viral transmission reagents, and the original material retrieved from the moon were stored.
Agent Travers eyes widened as he noticed a change to the straightforward layout of the basement. Before, the elevator let out onto a corridor, and all the facilities opened off to the right. First came the surgical suite, then the observation unit, the lab, and finally the terminal room, which housed the master workstation for the facility. At the back of the terminal room was a door allowing access to the server room.
Now, midway down the corridor, there was a new door opening to the left, across from the laboratory entrance.
“That’s new,” Buck said.
Jason Habet looked up from his morose plodding and noticed the direction of Agent Travers’ gaze. “Oh that, yeah. New tunnel they finished last year. Runs right into the basement of the on-base clinic. You know, where the new recruits go get their shots and what-not.” He stopped waddling to expound further, “Only been used a couple of times so far, but it keeps those damned terrorists from knowing when we got a new subject.”
Buck Travers moved past the large man, though he heard the jingling of a wide-hipped utility belt that said Habet was coming up behind him. His goal was just ahead, the terminal room. With the synthesized prints of Captain Ortega, he’d be able to put an end to both his targets.
“Allow me, sir,” Jason Habet said, reaching for the palm panel that opened the terminal room door.
Stepping into the carpeted room was like coming home for Buck. He remembered long hours sitting at the master terminal. Every security camera in the facility could be accessed from here. A quick double click of the mouse could open any program the user had access to, from viewing temperature logs in the cold storage unit to being able to read the progress notes written by the doctors and researchers on any subject. There were video logs as well, some of them far too gruesome for any movie screen, providing a dispassionate and objective top-down view of the subjects as they reacted to the serum.
Feeling something akin to nostalgia, Buck set his carry-on bag on the large desk. Moving to the thickly padded leather desk chair, he pulled it away from the desk and rotated it so he could sit down.
A klaxon began braying, an alarm that could only have been activated by a gate guard. The sudden noise saved Travers’ life. He turned back toward Habet and saw the fat man in the process of raising his sidearm. Strangely, his eyes were glazed, and another thin streamer of drool dangled from his mouth.
Reacting fast, aware that he’d be dead if not for the alarm, Agent Travers did the only thing he could think of. He ducked his head below the line of the pistol and rushed Officer Habet.
The gun went off, deafening in the enclosed space, even as his massive shoulder met the meaty chest of the portly officer. Legs pumping, Buck drove Habet into the wall separating the terminal room from the
laboratory next door. In the next second, Habet dropped the butt of his pistol onto the back of Travers’ head, opening a burning gouge along the left side of his skull and setting his left ear on fire.
Drool or no drool, the man reacted fast. Buck was sure he’d cracked a few of the man’s ribs when he drove him against the wall. But if it hurt him, Habet didn’t let it show.
“What the hell?” Travers shouted explosively, rising as the gun came up again. His hands locked onto the officer’s arms, pulling him back, anything to keep him off-balance and prevent the gun from coming back in line.
Travers brought a knee into the groin of his attacker. He felt the squishiness of the man’s crotch as he struck but, backpedaling as he was, he didn’t have much force behind the blow.
Pushing forward, using Travers’ momentum against him, Habet collided with the agent, driving the corner of the desk into Buck’s back. Sliding sideways, the two fell to the floor. Habet instinctively reached out with his right arm to break his fall, but it was the hand holding the gun. He brushed the desk chair on the way down, setting it spinning, and lost his grip on the pistol, which tumbled a few feet farther into the room.
The officer landed on top of Buck, who still had his knee in place. The impact did more damage to Habet’s groin than the original move.
“Urrph!” Habet grunted, losing strength.
“Get off of me!” Travers shouted, struggling to get his hands under the limp mass, toppling the officer to the side. He was disconcerted by the lack of any words from his opponent. No excuse, no rationale, not even an explicative.
Travers started to rise but Habet reached out with thick, sweaty arms, wrapping around the agent’s waist.
Buck Travers was a big man, fit and strong, but the weight of the corpulent guard made it difficult to get his legs under him.
If Buck could get to his pistol, he’d kill the insane man. But the stubborn bastard had him wrapped up tight and he was too heavy to stand up with.