Implant

by J. Grace Pennington

  Gordon watched as flakes of blood floated off his hand. Then Doc pulled the rag from his back pocket and used it to wipe the remaining blood away.

  Gordon watched, still hovering between numbness and tears. When he couldn’t stand the silence anymore, he said, “There’s a traitor somewhere.”

  Doc didn’t look up. “How do you know?”

  When Gordon spoke again, his voice was more bitter than he meant it to be. “Dagny Dalton knew about the plan—even where Caleb was hiding.”

  Doc didn’t answer this. He let go of Gordon’s wrist, took his other hand, and moved it into the water to clean it. The rag splashed gently.

  A locust hopped beside Gordon’s knee, then away behind him.

  A spark of fury lit in his heart, and he spoke more bitterly still. “If you’d come five seconds sooner…”

  “Boy,” Doc said, looking him straight in the eye and pausing his task, “I don’t think you understand that choosing not to do right is the same thing as choosing to do wrong.”

  This silenced Gordon. He’d thought Doc would say what he knew very well—that it was useless to try to blame Doc or anyone else for his mistakes. Or maybe Doc would defend himself—it had to be clear that Gordon thought he was the traitor. Or perhaps he would scold Gordon for failing his mission. But no.

  Doc wiped away the last of the blood, then handed him the rag and said, “Squeeze this out,” and walked away.

  Gordon squeezed, listening as Doc’s shovel hit the ground, once, twice, several times. After getting most of the moisture out of the rag, he stood, turned, and walked back to hand the rag to Doc.

  Doc took it without a word, put it in his pocket, and continued digging.

  After a moment, Gordon asked, “Can I help?”

  “Only one shovel,” Doc pointed out. “Just sit down.”

  Gordon obeyed, remembering Doc still didn’t know what had gone wrong in the shack. With a shaking voice, he volunteered the information; the cold, hard facts, not sparing himself.

  Doc didn’t interject. As Gordon finished the story, he studied Doc’s face intently. It was as unemotional and hard as ever. He sighed.

  “You’re regretting what you did,” Doc informed.

  “Of course.” Gordon hung his head and scratched one fingernail through the dirt aimlessly. Of course he was.

  “Listen, kid.” Doc heaved the shovel into the earth, then looked up, his hair dripping with sweat. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it to the ground. “I’m living with regrets you can’t even imagine.”

  His deep eyes bored into Gordon’s with a new intensity. Gordon searched for vulnerability and saw none.

  He didn’t think he should ask, but he did anyway. “What kind of regrets?”

  Doc gripped the shovel again and dug up a heap of dirt. “You’ve seen the Academy—the battles, the deaths, the rotten life the rebels live. You know about the Implants, and the tyranny. You know whose fault all that is?”

  Gordon shook his head. “No.”

  The deep gaze pierced him again. “Mine.”

  There was a moment of silence, during which Doc went back to shoveling. “But… how?” Gordon asked.

  “You’ve heard about the Head? Well, the Head was a friend to me. A good friend. Saved my life once. How could I say no to someone like that?”

  “But what did he ask you to do?”

  Doc eyed him without moving his head or stopping his work. “Help.”

  Every word came out with a nonchalance that sounded so real that Gordon felt disgust creep into his mind. “What kind of help?”

  “Managerial. Little things, mostly medical. I even helped develop some of the Implant models.”

  He seemed reluctant to give out more information, but Gordon wasn’t about to let him stop there. “But didn’t you see it going in this direction? Didn’t you even care?”

  “No to the first question, which makes the second irrelevant. I was the Head’s right hand man—for years. You don’t work that closely with someone for five years and not be affected.”

  “Was?” Gordon raised his eyebrows.

  Doc shrugged. “More of a left-hand man, now that Dalton’s around. Don’t think I’m really trusted anymore.”

  “So.” Gordon moved his knees closer to his chest and hugged them tightly. “The rebels don’t trust you because you’re with the Academy, and the Academy doesn’t trust you because you’re with the rebels.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Doc panted. He poked the shovel into the ground again, sweat streaking in dark stains down his back and out from under his armpits.

  Gordon watched as he struggled with another shovelful of dirt. Then he stood resolutely.

  “Let me do that.”

  Doc tossed the dirt aside and shook his head doggedly. “You can’t handle it. Sit down.”

  “I said I’ll do it.” Stepping forward, Gordon laid a hand on the shovel.

  Doc didn’t relinquish it. “And I said sit down.”

  “No.”

  Doc looked up and stared at him, his face streaked with trails of dirt and perspiration. Gordon didn’t back down.

  At last Doc shrugged and let go of the shovel. Gordon took it and started digging.

  Doc didn’t sit, however. Instead, he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, face averted so Gordon could only see his profile.

  Gordon watched him as he continued digging, putting his whole body into the work. Standing there in silence, his face to the breeze, covered in sweat, Doc seemed—human.

  “What made you change your mind?” Gordon asked at last.

  Doc turned towards him. “What?”

  “You were on the Head’s side. What changed that?”

  Doc’s lips turned up ever so slightly. “You should be able to guess. I forgot what it was to have principles or convictions until that idealistic dreamer came along. After I was sent to the base as a spy, he reminded me—in no uncertain terms, either. You’ve seen how pushy he is.”

  Gordon couldn’t help a smile, despite already being exhausted by the work. His strength soaked into each shovelful of dirt, to be tossed away with it. His biceps ached. Soon he’d have to turn the job over to Doc again, but he wanted to go on as long as he could.

  Doc went on. “Now there’s a man with some principles. I’ll say that for him. Not that I always agree with them.”

  Gordon nodded and blinked. After thrusting another little pile of dirt onto the ground outside the hole, he swung the shovel back in front of him and watched it tremble. He swayed a little.

  Before he had time to think, Doc’s hands were clamped on his shoulders. “Sit down,” he said. “I’ll finish.”

  Gordon obeyed, and let his shoulders relax, trying to get his heart to slow down.

  “Almost done anyway,” Doc grunted.

  Even through his wavering vision, Gordon could see that it was true. The hole was wide enough for a human body, and nearly deep enough.

  After just a few minutes, Doc threw the shovel down and walked back to the jeep. With careful respect, he lifted Caleb’s body and brought it to the hole they’d dug. He looked down at Caleb’s thin, white face and frowned. Tears stung Gordon’s eyes.

  Doc said nothing and did not look up. He just laid Caleb’s body gently in the hole, lifted the shovel, and started covering the dead man with dirt.

  Gordon’s vision, though watery, no longer shook. He turned his back and closed his eyes.

  If he quit now, Caleb’s death wouldn’t mean anything.

  They drove back to the base in silence, and Gordon tried not to think about telling Neil what had happened. Doc stopped the jeep in front of the base and got out without paying Gordon any attention. Gordon climbed out, weary in mind, body and soul. It had to be past midnight.

  He followed Doc through the barrier, down the quiet moonlit pathways, and into the lab where Neil bent over a microscope and an old computer, alone.

  Neil looked up brightly when he heard the door open, but
his expression quickly turned to a frown.

  “Where’s Dagny Dalton?” he asked. “Where’s Caleb?”

  Doc looked at Gordon. Gordon swallowed. Doc was not the kind of man to bail him out.

  He told the story—how they’d followed the plan exactly, how all had gone well until Dagny Dalton appeared, and how he’d finally made the choice to give up the plan to save Caleb.

  The creases in Neil’s forehead grew more pronounced as Gordon spoke, and after hearing about the failure of it, he asked sternly, “Where is Caleb?”

  Gordon swallowed harder and looked at Doc.

  “You or I would know better than to take that black-brained, chicken-hearted, faceless tool at his word. But the boy’s too idealistic.”

  Neil’s face flushed and he glared at Gordon. Gordon looked down, trying not to let his eyes overflow again. He was sorry. He was.

  Doc came to his rescue. “We buried him, it’s over now. What next?”

  Neil made a feeble effort to relax. “We’ll have to come up with something else. I’ve got the silicon ready, and it should last for awhile.” His voice manifested tension, and Gordon instinctively stepped closer to Doc.

  “Neil, don’t you think the boy should get some sleep?” Doc asked, raising his eyebrows.

  Neil lowered his, then licked his lips. “Do you know how to get to the hotel from here, Gordon?” he asked.

  Gordon knew they only wanted to get him out of the room, but he nodded.

  “Here.” Neil reached into the pocket of his coat and handed Gordon a key. “Rest. Meet me for breakfast in the morning.”

  Gordon took the key, glanced at Doc’s unchanging face, and left the lab. Doc didn’t wait until the door was closed to start talking. “If you ask me, the boy is more ready than before.”

  Neil’s sharper voice followed closely. “No one’s asking you, you nuisance. Besides…”

  Gordon closed the door and started off in a weary trot towards the hotel.

  The moonlight was dimmer now, and Gordon had to slow his pace before long, to keep from tripping or running into things along the only vaguely familiar streets. He found his way to the hotel, then slipped through the dark, silent lobby to the elevator, which was lit by rows of tiny lights along the top, and cranked the lever up.

  When he reached his room, he had trouble fitting the key into the lock, but he finally managed it and opened the heavy wooden door.

  He didn’t bother to fumble for a light switch or turn on a lamp in the dark room. He just kicked off his shoes and crawled into bed, trying not to think about blood or guns or men in black suits, or cigarette smoke. Doc was right. He needed sleep.

  *****

  He slept longer than he’d hoped; a deep, dreamless sleep. When he woke, the sun already glared through the hotel window, and a bustle of activity from outside told him he should be up already.

  He’d probably missed breakfast, and his meeting with Neil.

  With a sigh, he dragged himself out of bed, grunting as his shoulder and back muscles punished him for the digging he’d done the night before. He rubbed his eyes, stretched, winced, put on his shoes, and headed out the door, pocketing his room key.

  The busy streets, full of rebels rushing and talking and carrying things, told Gordon breakfast was over. He walked to the mess hall anyway.

  True to his suspicions, only a few stragglers remained, chatting as they ate the last dregs of their oatmeal. It might be petty of him, but Gordon hated oatmeal—and he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone when he was late, and he didn’t want to keep Neil waiting any longer. So he left the tent again and started towards the lab.

  When he got there, Neil’s voice greeted his ears, conversing with some other scientists at a thousand miles a second, and he spared only a glance for Gordon as he entered.

  “They’re working on it. We don’t know how long it will take, but we want to have our weapons modified well before then, so everyone can be trained. Focus on the newer ones first, then move on to the older models.” He waved them away and turned to Gordon. “Feeling rested?”

  Gordon nodded. “I’m sorry I’m late…”

  “It’s fine. Doc won’t be here for another ten minutes, so can you go tell Doug Goldman he’s the new chief of field mechanics for me? Then come back here and we’ll discuss everything.”

  Gordon hesitated, but Neil didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned to a nearby computer and began typing.

  Biting his lip, Gordon turned and left, feeling undefined nervousness growing in his chest.

  The engineering building, next to the computer section, well earned its place as the most dilapidated building he’d seen yet. One entire wall had been replaced with canvas made from old sails. He entered, and was immediately overwhelmed.

  Machinery and electronics he couldn’t begin to understand sat on every side, whirring, clanking, whining. There were about a dozen workers, mostly men, all very busy. Only a few fluorescent lights lit the large room, creating a constrained atmosphere. The workers went about their tasks quietly, dressed in old coveralls smeared with grease and dirt.

  As Gordon stood observing this, one of the men, young but tall and broad-shouldered, hurried over to him, his face smudged and sweaty. He offered a weary smile. “Can we help you?”

  “I’m looking for Doug Goldman?” Gordon asked rather than stated.

  “I’m Doug Goldman.” The smile disappeared, leaving the facial muscles strained. “You’re Gordon Harding, I think?”

  “Yes—Neil sent me with a message.”

  “What is it?”

  “He says—you’re the new chief of field mechanics.”

  Doug stared at him, not appearing to take in the words. After a moment he cleared his throat and asked, as if he were afraid of the answer, “What’s wrong with Caleb Moore?”

  Gordon hesitated in turn. “He’s dead,” he brought himself to say at last.

  He wished he hadn’t had to see the shock on Doug’s face. It left the masterful features paralyzed, and the deep brown eyes turned childlike in their vulnerability. “Dead?”

  “Yes. I’m—I’m sorry.” Was this why Neil had sent him? Did he want Gordon to see more of the seriousness of what was going on? As if he were not perfectly aware of that already. He had seen it happen. Tried to hold the man’s blood in.

  “I see.” Doug regained his composure, though it was tempered now with new heaviness. “Well—” He paused. “I think—Neil wanted us to show you the new project. I guess now is as good a time as any. Though I’m not quite as familiar with it as Caleb is—was.”

  Gordon nodded, though he wanted to slink away and hide instead. “All right.”

  Doug led the way to a table at the far end of the room where a man and woman were working with computers and circuits and bits and pieces of electronics Gordon didn’t recognize.

  “This is Mr. and Mrs. Louis Simons. They can explain the project to you.” With these hurried words, Doug nodded and walked away.

  Mrs. Simons smiled up at him. “Gordon Harding?”

  He nodded.

  “We’ve heard about you,” Mr. Simons said, nodding back but not stopping his work. “Did Neil tell you anything about this?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Mr. Simons bent over a small red box full of wires and little round pieces of metal. “Carrie, would you tell him about it? I have to finish this before lunch.”

  The woman nodded, and beckoned Gordon over to her computer. He went around to the other side of the table where she sat so he could see the screen. That didn’t help much, as it was covered in wiggly lines and strings of gibberish that meant less to him than Japanese.

  “We’re working on a controller to shut down the Academy’s shield generator from outside,” she explained, her eyes shining with excitement.

  Gordon looked on the squiggles and numbers with new respect. “But I thought the shield blocked all signals? Isn’t that the whole point?”

  “It blocks the IR signals
that the detonators use,” she replied. “That’s the point. We’ve been working with Caleb Moore and Pete Kazowski to develop this, but Caleb’s busy, and Pete’s been a little preoccupied the last few days—trying to get his sister’s baby back for her.”

  Gordon swallowed and nodded. He was not going to be the one to tell this woman that her superior was dead. He’d leave that to Doug. Maybe it was the coward’s way out, but he didn’t care right now. “Just how will that help us?” he asked.

  “It should make your job easier. If we can succeed in the next couple of days, then you’ll be able to destroy the Control Center from the outside. Neil wants to have another option in case you can’t get inside.”

  “What kind of rays are you using?” he asked, though he suspected her answer would mean nothing to him.

  “It was Neil’s idea to begin with,” she explained. “He didn’t understand at first how the Head could detonate from the Inner Sanctum if it was inside the shield. But with some help from Doc, he found out that it was more like an internet system—the controls are connected via fiber-optics to sensors outside the shield which can trace the signal of any Implant on earth. He asked if we could do the same thing to get a signal in there. We’ve been working on it for a month, and we’re getting very close.”

  So maybe his failure hadn’t been that bad after all. Maybe there was a way to do it without Dagny Dalton. Why hadn’t Neil told him? Unless it wasn’t as sure as Mrs. Simons was letting on.

  “Wait…” She stopped her explanation to look back up at him. “Wasn’t Caleb going with you? Yes, he told us he was going to help you out at the shack. Is he back? We could really use him…”

  Gordon shook his head, feeling sick. Caleb wasn’t back, and never would be. “No,” he started, bracing himself for that look on her face. “He’s—he’s…”

  “He’s dead.” It took Gordon a moment to recognize the voice behind him as Doug Goldman’s.

  “Dead?” The shock he’d dreaded registered on the woman’s face. Gordon closed his eyes. “But wasn’t he using the tunnel entrance? Dagny Dalton can’t know about that. It’s not—how could he know?”