by J. L. Mac
I HAVE ALWAYS DREAMED THAT if I ever magically got my eyesight back, suddenly everything would become clear. As if the proverbial switching on of the lights would somehow switch on clarity and understanding of the world I live in. My life would be full and purpose-driven. I’d take the Propensity Screening and be placed in a job that suited me well. I’d meet, fall in love with, and marry another Fenra employee then we’d wait patiently to be given authorization to have our only child.
I always thought that I’d somehow know all the things I needed to know but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The fact of my reality is that I’m more confused than I’ve ever been. In the last few weeks of my life, things have gone from bleak to disturbing, to confusing, to frightening, to thrilling, to life–threatening, and then back to confusing.
Confusion has remained my constant since dreams of Sic started all those years ago. I have always been confused as to why I was having dreams, how I knew what I was seeing, who my phantom was…
I always thought that if somehow I were reborn with fresh eyes, my life would somehow be better, clearer, easier, predictable, and brighter.
Now I have those fresh eyes but I’ve never felt more in the dark than I do right now. I’ve never felt more vulnerable than I do now. I’ve never felt more confused and scared than I do now.
What’s worse is the buzz circulating about the Dark Lander that security captured this morning. “A key operative of The Resistance” is what the automated message has been droning on about.
I wake to the sound of sirens and blaring speakers barking out warnings to employees. Even before I know, I know. I know it’s Sic. I feel it right to the core of me. I was asleep but something inside was wide awake and saw it coming, felt it coming. I could feel his heart pounding. I heard the sound of Sic’s breaths as he ran, as if I were running with him. I could see the blaze of bright lights shining all around. I could smell the sickly sweet scent of the sleeping gas. I could taste blood on my lips. Then I wake up to chaos and cheers from gathering employees that watch a large group of security agents as they haul off Sic’s limp form.
My heart sinks and I have to fight against my reflex to cry out, to sink to my knees and beg for them to release him because I know well that they’ll kill him. It’s a good thing that I don’t react to the scene on the streets because Chief Williams’ dark brown eyes find me and watch me closely as the morbid death-parade passes by my house. It instantly reminds me of the story Sic had been telling me about. The prohibited book he was recounting was about a group of boys marooned on an island where they faced cruel environmental conditions, but soon discover that the cruelest of their fates was the savagery that the boys showed each other. They tortured and isolated each other. They banded together in factions, not to better survive, but to better conquer other factions.
It was something that I wasn’t too keen on listening to, but Sic seemed to be enamored with the story about the boys’ behavior. I wonder absently if he’ll be able to finish telling me what happens in the end of the book.
If my feet could wear a hole in the floor, they would have done it by now. I’ve paced the floor of my bedroom wondering how I can convince the agents to release Sic.
What if he’s already dead?
As soon as the thought enters my head, I push it away, unwilling to allow my mind to speculate on the fate of the man with which I share an inexplicable, but very real bond.
What reason could they possibly have to keep him alive?
"Think," I implore myself, grappling with reality. It's been some time since I discretely watched with my fresh eyes as agents toted Sic away like some prized pig.
"Chief. Denise. Williams," the bitch in the box on the wall drones causing the hair on the nape of my neck to stand. For a moment I stand frozen in place wondering why in the hell the newly appointed Chief Williams is at my door. My dad always says "no news is good news," and right at this moment I cannot agree more. Worry for my dad and for Sic and for myself terrorizes me.
What if dad has gotten worse? What if they know that Sic is connected to me? What if they've killed him?
Tremors wrack my hands as I try to smooth my clothes and tuck hair behind my ears. I take a deep breath and mentally remind myself to play the part. With my glasses in place, I swing my door open and wait as I normally would.
"Miss Tierney, I'm glad I've caught you at home. With Doctor Tierney being in the hospital, I wondered if you'd even be here."
"You're the new chief?" I ask, stepping aside to invite the new chief in.
"I am. Denise," she says as she extends her hand to me. I remain with my arms at my sides feeling slightly amused at the reflexive gesture and absently wonder how many times someone has done this.
"How can I help you, Chief?" I ask, purposefully thrusting my own hand outward in the wrong direction.
"I have a proposition for you. Can we sit?"
"Of course," I say while leading her to my father’s chairs in the living room. I allow my fingers to graze the surfaces of my home like I normally would and remind myself not to stare at her.
I look beyond her and wait. "As I'm sure you know, recent events have created quite an issue for our PR department. Your fellow Fenra residents are uneasy and they have every right to be. These, after all, are uneasy times. You can change that."
"Me?"
“You."
"How so?"
"We would like you to be a representative for our PR team. You would be our poster girl. We need someone to speak to the masses."
"You're assuming that I have helpful things to say…" Before I can think better of it, the words tumble from my mouth with traces of venom in them. Everything is so fresh and confusing. The idea of helping The Corporation with anything is on my long list of ‘Things I’m not likely to do.’
"Why ever wouldn't you?" She tilts her head, her brown eyes narrowing to slits, her body language in stark contrast with her eerily melodic voice that feels equally threatening and soothing. If I had any notion that she is going to be any better than Ingram, I'm certain that I was sorely mistaken.
"Well," I swallow hard, grappling for some semblance of calm. "…what happened to my father…"
"That's precisely why you are the perfect ambassador for Fenra. You know well what happens when animals behave like animals. Dillon Ingram was an animal. The Resistance is nothing but animals. You have the ability to reassure everyone how wonderful Fenra has been during this trying time."
"Wonderful?"
"Of course. You weren't assuming that you wouldn't be compensated handsomely, were you?"
"I'll think about it," I snap back reflexively.
"I'm sure you will. So many people stand to lose…everything should The Resistance gain an upper hand because of wild rumors flying around. Surely you will do all that you can to help Fenra secure our employees and crush all Dark Landers?"
Unwilling to say anything, I nod my head and battle against the chill snaking up my spine just to coil tightly around my throat.
"Chief?"
"Yes?"
"You captured a Resistance operative today. Isn't that enough? I mean, when you all do whatever you do with them… people will calm down right?"
“A situation such as this can be very fluid.” She seems to be carefully choosing her words, as if she is afraid to give away too much information. “It would be irresponsible for me to comment on the situation, other than to say that though the public should feel more at ease, there still may be the seeds of panic sown among them.”
It doesn’t take a genius to see that the new Chief is being tight lipped and playing it close to the vest. The art of casual interrogation isn’t a subject I’m savvy with, but I’d imagine that the goal is to get your subjects to give more information than they get from you and never realize that they are doing it.
In my case, Chief Williams is likely staying cagey as a force of habit. I’ve been careful not to give her any reason to be suspect of me and she hasn’t indic
ated that she’s here for anything beyond what she has asked of me—to be their poster girl.
“The prisoner we captured is being held for interrogation until we are done with him. Actually, as we speak, agents are working to obtain as much information from him as possible." She smiles brightly as if Sic's demise is her version of a good day at the office.
"Oh. I see." It's the only thing I can manage to say without choking on the fear wrapping its cold fingers around my heart.
“I’ll be waiting to hear from you, Miss Tierney. By the way, that’s a lovely necklace you have there,” she notes, pointing towards my father’s pendant that I have been absentmindedly rolling between my thumb and forefinger.
“Thank you.” I nod and watch from behind tinted lenses as Chief Williams takes her leave.
My poor Sic. What is he going through right this moment?
Anger and fear and a protective instinct swims through my veins and in spite of Chief Williams and all the other unknown details regarding The Corporation, my origins, my connection to Sic and an uncertain future, I know I must help Sic. I know that I will help Sic. No matter the cost.
I strip off my clothes and slip beneath my quilt, the one that still smells like Sic. I close my eyes and plead with my body to relax. I’ve shared dreams with him before—dreams that we both recalled interacting. Perhaps I can do it again. In the past I never really tried to dream and communicate with him and the truth is I’m not even sure it works like this, but I have to try.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
I work at breathing even and deeply, coaxing the tension from my muscles. With my eyes closed, I focus in on Sic. What he feels like. How he smells. The sound of his voice. The feel of his hands on my skin…
The feeling of being completely restrained would make most anyone crazy, Sic especially. I can tell that he’s mostly irritated. Lying atop a padded table, he has clamps and leather straps holding him immobile. I concentrate and I can see the scene from above, but just for an instant. The sensation is strangely disembodying as my perspective shifts from Sic’s point of view to a floating spot above the floor.
The table Sic is held captive atop appears to be similar to one I’ve seen in the operating suite at the hospital. Racking my brain, I remember hearing one of the technicians talking about it being used in spine surgery. Adapting it to prison use strikes me as a very utilitarian decision. One that speaks volumes about Williams’ ability to adapt what’s available to her current needs.
As my perspective snaps back to Sic, my vision is again limited by what he can see which is comprised of a small cone of sight directly above the table. His eyes are mostly closed though as he focuses on his other senses. The gentle waft of air signals the opening of a door somewhere nearby. The sound of gentle tread from rubber soles upon the tiled floors, soft conversations held many rooms away. It’s on one conversation in particular that I realize that Sic is focusing.
“It figures that the only person we manage to catch is some young kid. Did his scan come up anywhere in the system?” The voice sounds tired, male, elderly. In contrast, his companion sounds young and speaks with hushed enthusiasm. The gentle alto of her female tones ringing in the higher frequency range.
“No, and that is even more intriguing. Chief Williams thinks that he might be a Dark Lander! Can you believe it? We might have one of those unwashed animals imprisoned that took out our people. Why do you think she hasn’t started torturing him for answers?” The older man lets out a derisive snort.
“Because he probably doesn’t know anything. How many kids his age do you think The Resistance has working for them? Cannon fodder, that’s what he is. Just another foot soldier that they could abandon when we got too close. You notice that their elite team didn’t even try to double back to save him? That’s because they don’t care. You call them animals? That’s unkind to animals. At least animals take care of their own.”
I can feel Sic’s amusement at the conversation. The connection I’m maintaining is difficult, but I strain, wanting to learn as much as I can. The conversation lulls for a moment before the younger woman replies in a sullen tone.
“Young people can be important! Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you have any more value than me! For all you know he could be a lone assassin here to kill us all!”
The older man laughs and footsteps sound, moving away. A moment later there’s the sound of a door opening and closing. A few seconds pass before I hear an angry sigh and the sound of the young woman muttering unkind things about the older man.
The strain is too much. I can feel the connection slipping. Once it begins to fade my awareness snaps back to my surrounds so quickly that it leaves me with a moment of nausea. Breathing deeply, I put my hands on my head and lean forward. Fighting against both my swirling stomach and my suddenly pounding head. With no shortage of effort, I make my way to the couch and collapse on top of it. Moments later I slip into an uneasy slumber.
“Alright then, I’ll go to hell.” – Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
THE TASTE OF FAILURE HAD not improved with the passage of time. When I was young, the beatings I had been forced to endure had escalated along with the progression of my shortcomings. It’s no surprise to me when I wake in the shadowy confines of my cell, the ghostly taste of copper predominantly in my mouth.
It takes me only a few quiet moments to detect the camera in the far corner of the room, when the thin crackle of its microphone betrays my captor’s presence. It’s oddly surprising to have awoken at all. The exuberance of the security team to punish the man who had killed their companions should have meant that I met a messy end. After waiting for a bit over twenty minutes (which I counted off in my head), I’m rewarded with two guards speaking. They are several doors away and far out of earshot of a normal prisoner. Keeping my eyes mere slits I focus on the sounds issuing from down the hall.
“He’s just a pawn I tell you!” The person speaking is male, elderly, and likely a trifle deaf in one ear due to the volume that he speaks at.
“You’re crazy! No one knows him, he’s not in the system and there's no reason that anyone would sneak into the compound unless they were Resistance!” This voice is younger, female, and based on the timbre of the voice, ovulating.
“He could be a theif. But I admit he’s probably Resistance. The point is that he was left to die while his accomplices made their escape. It ain’t right! Those animals sinking their hooks into kids and twisting them all up inside. Now he’s probably gonna die. And for what? Because some asshole out in the woods didn’t want to work for a living! It’s just a crying shame.”
I keep my face still with an effort, but inside I’m grinning like a madman. This explains why I’m still alive, if not why I’m secured so efficiently. Security apparently has no clue who I am or what I can do. So far, it appears they think I’m one of the Junior Resistance, a rabble-rouser from another location. This might buy me enough time to escape, or barring that to get a hand free. There were several ways I can kill myself that only required one hand. The thought of leaving Iris here alone, undefended, is the only thing that gives me any hesitation.
As long as I’m alive she’s in danger. It’ll take them some time, but eventually they will be able to get the information they need out of me. If nothing else there are chemicals they can use that even I won’t be able to resist.
The knock out gas that had been used to capture me was designed to keep a subject subdued for an entire day, unless an antidote was administered. It was only a bit before one of the guards asks another for the time and I’m able to orient myself. I’ve been out for just over eight hours. Security is likely focusing their energies on finding my ‘cohorts’ that had escaped them. The idea of The Corp wasting energy beating the bushes would have been funny if I
wasn’t trapped inside a cell. The straps holding me in place prevent me from moving even a fraction. There’s no way to get enough leverage to break any of them and they’ve stripped me bare. All of the small weapons hidden in my clothes are far beyond my reach. The thin green gown I’m wearing barely offered warmth, much less a place to conceal anything.
About two hours after I wake up, a technician comes in to check on me. At the sound of his approach I regulate my breathing. Consciously, I bring my heartrate down to simulate the same readings as someone who was unconscious. For a moment, I toy with the idea of suspending my readings entirely, before I discard the thought. There’s a chance that the technician or other responders might free me from the restraints to work on me. If they didn’t the results could be disastrous. They might realize that I was awake and then all chance of escape or death could vanish.
As the technician leaves I listen to his departure, trying to see if he had discovered that I’m awake. I’m relieved when the technician makes his report without any verbal clue that he saw any issues.
“Readings are normal. The guy should be out for at least the next sixteen hours. I expect you guys will be seeing me again soon. I’m supposed to come down with the Chief when she interrogates him.”
“I look forward to it,” the young woman says. The attraction in her voice is apparent and I feel like laughing when the obviously clueless man says his goodbyes and continues on his way.
Remember Sic, even half blind, half deaf, and clueless these people managed to bring you down. Maybe you shouldn’t be so damn cocky!
It sounds like Anna’s voice in my head and I realize that it’s was my own fault that I’ve been caught. I’ve gotten so used to passing freely in and out of the compound that I got sloppy. It’s ironic that Iris’s best friend is the one that sounded the alarm. I briefly wonder if Iris would have been furious with me if I had killed the girl.