Incursion: Book Three of The Recursion Event Saga

by Brian J. Walton

  They’re clapping.

  My vision clears. I see a young man standing over me with a round face, curly dark hair and wearing glasses that frame large, brown eyes. They are kind eyes.

  “Nicely done, people. That’s the biggest jump yet. One for the history books.”

  There’s polite laughter at this last part, and I realize he’s just made a joke. What they’ve just done will never make it into a history book. And neither will my survival of that crash.

  I’m supposed to be dead.

  I crane my head around. We’re in a large, domed room bathed in a low light. The size of the room is probably a hundred feet by two hundred feet. The ground around the pool is landscaped with streams and towering palm trees. A domed glass ceiling extends high above me covered in a layer of dust and dirt; the height of the ceiling is hard to determine in the relative darkness. It's dark out, and the only visible light comes from portable security lights, fixed to poles.

  Around the room are more structures like the one over the pool. But these are vertical. Some of them seem to be on, with shimmering light rippling across their surface, while others are off. Including the one on the ceiling, I count six in total. They look like the structures in the Los Angeles Station that Ellis had described, but these are much smaller than the giant structures depicted in his notes. Those were large enough to drive a van through; these would only accommodate two men walking side by side.

  Thick bundles of wires trail from each structure to large banks of computers. They are two-dozen men and women standing near me, interspersed around the computers. Most of them wear white lab coats. Further back, I see more people—mostly men—dressed in uniforms and holding guns. They look military, but their uniforms are a dark gray, and don’t look like uniforms from any branch of the military I’m familiar with.

  I struggle to piece together the disparate images I'm seeing. The whole room looks like some kind of hotel or theme park converted into either a military base, or science facility. Or maybe something in between.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, my voice sounding weak to my own ears.

  “You’ve been through a traumatic experience,” the man with the kind eyes says. “We’re going to help you get through it. Do you understand? We’re here to help. Nod if you understand me.”

  I nod in response to the man’s question. “Are you a doctor?” I ask.

  “No, I’m a scientist,” he responds. “But I guess I’m the closest thing you'll get here.”

  “Get him onto the stretcher,” another voice says.

  A man and a woman in white coats lean over me. They lift me while someone else slides a stretcher underneath me.

  “Does anything hurt?” the female scientist asks, while shining a light into my lights. The other scientist checks my pulse.

  “Everything hurts.” I say.

  “Can you feel your toes?” She asks.

  I try to wiggle them. “I think so. I—I don’t know. I’m cold.”

  I turn, seeing a group of scientists gathered around one gate. The gate shimmers and glows, though I can’t quite make out the scene behind it. There is a pile of objects in front of the gate that I also can’t quite make out. The first thing I can think of is that it looks like investigators examining and poring over wreckage after a plane crash. One scientist, a woman with red hair, moves between the objects. She bends, picking one up, and passes a machine over it. After a moment, she hands the items to another scientist who takes it away.

  “Careful there,” the male scientist says, stepping into view. “Try not to move too much. We don’t know yet if anything’s broken.”

  I feel hands slipping a brace around my neck, then wrapping a strap around my forehead, cinching it tight.

  The female scientist appears above me again, holding a syringe. “This is for the pain. I’m going to check you out. But don’t worry. You'll be fine.”

  She pulls back my sleeve.

  “Hold still,” she mutters.

  There’s a prick and a sting, and then it’s over.

  “All right, take him to the locker room,” the female scientist says.

  Hands lift the stretcher, hoisting me into the air. I struggle to move, but the straps are pulled tight. The soldiers carry me around the pool, and the scientist with the kind eyes follows next to me, placing a hand on my shoulder as we move.

  Faces stream past, giving reassuring smiles as they float above me.

  “Amazing,” one says.

  “Great job,” another says.

  I turn my head as much as it will move in the restraints. A gate comes into view. It’s turned off with only a blank wall visible behind it.

  “Try not to move too much,” the scientist says. And then he smiles again. “You’ll be fine.”

  “When are we?” I ask.

  “A hotel in Tokyo,” he says, glancing down at me. “Or… what’s left of it.”

  “No,” I say. “When are we?”

  “Oh,” he says, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “We’re not sure. It’s still the 21 century, but sometime in the latter half.”

  “I thought you guys don’t go to the future.” I say.

  He purses his lips, looking away. “We don’t,” he says, and then moves away from the stretcher.

  I glance to the side again as we near the group of scientists combing through piles of objects on the ground. Behind them, the shimmering image is more visible through its surface, and something about it is familiar. I try to keep my eyes fixed on the gate as we moved past it, straining my neck against the straps to focus on the image that is barely visible through the shimmering light. And then something lurches inside of me as I recognize the scene I am looking at. It’s my apartment. The one in New York that I shared with Molly. It looks just as it had on that night I had left New York that night it was robbed. But now I’m seeing it from the other side, as the soldiers moving back and forth are carrying things—my things—through the gate to be examined. What the hell are they looking for? I can feel the drug that the scientist gave me beginning to take effect. I try say something, but the darkness is closing in, and then everything is—

  “Mr. Gardner…” a voice says. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s my own name that I’m hearing. My throat and chest burn, but I can’t remember why. I’m lying on a cot. I'm dry now. How long has it been since… What happened again? The memories come back in a blur. The plane. The tunnel. Falling into water. I open my eyes, looking up toward the direction of the voice. The face I see is familiar. The young scientist. And the man behind him is familiar as well. What was his name again? Hauser. That’s right.

  “Are you feeling okay?” the scientist asks.

  I try to roll on my side, but stop when I feel pain. “Sore,” I mutter.

  “I’ve checked you out,” the scientist says. “And you’re fine. Nothing more than a few bruises.”

  I put a hand on my chest. The clothes I’m wearing feel unfamiliar. I sit up a little, looking at myself. I’m wearing a hospital gown and nothing else.

  “We have all your belongings,” the scientist says.

  I hear a noise and I turn my head to see Hauser, standing from a chair in a corner of the room. He opens a door and disappears without saying a word.

  “The boss man needs to talk to you,” the scientist says, and something like a shadow crosses over his face. He glances behind him to make sure that Hauser is gone and then turns back to me, stepping closer. “This was supposed to be a science outpost, and then the military guys started showing up. Real trigger-happy types if you ask me. You want my advice? Just do exactly what they ask and everything will be fine.”

  I crane my head, looking around. The cot I am lying on is in a long, narrow room with tile walls. But much of the tile has fallen away, revealing crumbling plaster and concrete underneath. A moment later, Hauser returns followed by another soldier. He’s taller, with a square jaw and short, well-trimmed brown hair with a few flecks of grey. The uniform he is wearing
is recognizably that of the marines, and the eagle on his dress blues tells me that he’s a Colonel.

  “Mr. Gardner,” the man says stepping forward. He sits across from my cot on a bench that has been bolted to the floor. “My name is Colonel Andrews. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Sore,” I say again.

  “We’ll try to find you something for the pain,” Andrews says, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He turns and nods at the scientist, who kneels down and searches through a case on the floor. He pulls out a bottle of pills and stands. Hauser snatches the bottle from his hands, tossing it to me. It’s Tylenol.

  “This is all you’ve got?” I ask.

  “It’s either this, some local anesthetic, or some of that stuff that will knock you out again,” the scientist says. “Sorry, no Vicodin here. But this stuff is Extra Strength. It should be enough.”

  I sit up and rip off the cap, throwing four tablets into my mouth.

  “I apologize about the amenities,” Andrews says. “This isn’t exactly a hospital. You need to understand; the United States Government has gone through great cost and effort to bring you here today.”

  I grip the edge of the cot and stare up at Colonel Andrews. “That plane was going to crash.”

  “Yes it was,” Andrews says.

  “I was going to die,” I say.

  “According to history, you have,” Andrews says.

  “Am I a prisoner now?” I ask.

  “We’re just here to have a little chat.” Andrews’s stony face remains expressionless, and it doesn’t escape my notice that he never answered my questions. It's clear now why the ISD chose that moment to take me. Because rescuing me from death, in a way that make it appear I had still died, would likely not drastically change anything too much. Ellis’s notes say that history is difficult change, so this must be a way around that. A loophole.

  “Okay then. Let’s chat.” I say.

  Andrews leans forward on the bench, placing his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers. It’s a practiced move, as if to signify that he is placing all of his attention on me. “There’s something I want to make absolutely clear for you right now. We may have saved your life, but that doesn’t mean you are safe. There are people that have been watching you for a very long time. We tracked them to this facility. For the moment, they’re gone. But that doesn’t mean they won’t return. And if they find you're with us, I can’t promise we’ll be able to protect you. It may not be in our power to do so.”

  “Watching me?” I ask. “How?” Though as soon as I ask, I remember the gate containing a tunnel to my own living room from ten years ago.

  “That’s… complicated.” Andrews says. “But the simple answer is that they’ve been watching you using the same technology that got you out of that plane. A technology that we are just beginning to understand. When we found this place, that technology had been left on, like an open door. And you know where that door led to?”

  I shake my head.

  “It led to you.” Colonel Andrews pauses, continuing to stare at me, unblinking. “I’m going to be as honest with you as possible. I work for a branch of the United States Government that is the most closely guarded secret in the history of the world. If I said that answering your question could mean I may have to kill you, then that would not be an understatement. We saved your life, but you can never live a normal life again. Understand?”

  I nod. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “We knew your wife was important to the people we’ve been tracking. That’s why we recruited her. But we want to know now is why they would be watching you?”

  I smile, then my smile fades. “You’re serious?” A million questions race through my mind. Key among them is whether they know what happened to Molly in Paris.

  Colonel Andrew’s face remains as stony calm as ever. “Your former roommate, E. F. Claymore, is one of the foremost conspiracy theorists on our organization.”

  I think of the notes that Ellis had given me. The detailed description of the underground Station, the people he had seen inside, and what had happened to them. That’s when it clicks. Colonel Andrews had been there, but according to Ellis’s description, he had been an older man. As far as Ellis knew, Colonel Andrews had died when the Station collapses, along with everyone else that hadn’t made it through a gate. Andrews might be thinking of me as a dead man, but he’s a dead man as well.

  “Ellis was a terrible roommate,” I say.

  “You visited him two years ago.” Andrews says.

  “We got dinner.” I say. “I listened to one of his shows in the studio. That was it.”

  Andrews picks up a folder that had been sitting on the bench next to him. He opens it, revealing a picture of a blonde-haired man, middle-aged, slender, wearing a three-piece suit. The word “old school” comes to mind, like an actor from the silent movie era.

  “Do you recognize this man?” Andrews asked.

  “Is that a joke?” I ask.

  Andrews continues as if he hadn’t heard me. “On November 5, 1998, you attended a fundraiser at Gracie Mansion in New York. This man was there that night, posing as a member of the catering staff. We believe he may have contacted you.”

  “That was almost ten years ago,” I say.

  Andrews leans forward again, holding the picture even closer. “Take your time.”

  “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “He looks like he walked out of a silent film. I think I’d remember him.”

  “Okay, let’s try to jog your memory. Did you speak to any of the catering staff that night?”

  They’re testing me… I could answer in a number of ways; truthfulness could be to my advantage. But they could also be feigning ignorance. I think back to my months held prisoner by the JAS. They constantly feigned ignorance when they questioned me, and would lie about what they knew just as frequently. Denial is my best bet.

  “No.”

  “Did anyone from the catering staff give you anything?”

  I stare back. “You guys do realize that I got into a car accident that night and went for a little swim in the East River, right?” I point at Hauser. “I mean, he was there. So even if I did get something, it would have been long gone by the next morning.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “No.”

  “Did you open the package that you were given?”

  I stare, feeling dumbfounded. “I didn't get a package.”

  Andrews sighs, checking his watch. “Obviously you must realize that we already know plenty about that night, and your answers tell us plenty, whether or not you are being truthful. So answer the question. Did you open the package?”

  “No.”

  “Can you describe what was in the package?”

  I shake my head. “Even if I kept whatever the hell it was this guy allegedly gave me, and even if it managed to survive my dunk in the river, I left town a month later and took nothing with me. And when I say I left and took nothing, I mean nothing except the clothes on my back. But what am I saying, you know that as well.”

  “It could have been small,” I look up, surprised to hear Hauser’s voice. “Insignificant. Anything really. A coin. A photograph. Even a pen or a pencil. I expect he would have told you to hold onto it. Not lose it.” Hauser bends down and picks up a bag, throwing it at my feet. “Were any of these items given to you that night?”

  Inside the bag are my wallet, my clothes, my keys, the flash drive… and Molly’s necklace I had dug up from the Vandermeer’s backyard. I look back up, feeling a rush of anger. “You were there. I guess you remember something that I don’t. Whatever it is you think someone gave me, your guess is as good as mine.”

  Andrews and Hauser share a glance. After a moment of silent communication, Hauser turns and gestures for the scientist to come forward. The scientist approaches and Hauser gives him the bag. “Have your crew going over his apartment check this bag a
s well.” He reaches inside and takes out the necklace. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “It looks like it was an entanglement event.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Hauser says.

  “We’ll check it out,” the scientist responds. He moves to leave the room but Andrews stops him with a wave of his hand.

  There’s a distant boom. Dust and plaster falls from the ceiling.

  “Wait,” Andrews says. “First, I want to get a tracker set up for him.”

  “Do you want me to check on that?” Hauser asks.

  “Stay here and help,” Andrews responds.

  Andrews turns to leave, but the scientist steps in front of him. “Is that really necessary?”

  “Yes,” Andrews says simply, his face a stony mask.

  “Is what necessary?” I ask.

  Andrews glances back. “They only way we could protect you from the people who built these things take you from us is to track you. To do that, we’re going to have to take a small core of one of your teeth.”

  Andrews moves to the door and says something quietly over a radio. He waits for the answer. Someone responds, their voice illegible to me through the static. Andrews says something else, and then turns back to the scientist. “We need to do this now.”

  The scientist nods his assent. He sets down his case and takes out instruments; they look like dental equipment. As he works, Hauser moves behind me. “You’ll need to lie down,” Hauser says. He puts a hand on each of my shoulders and pushes me down, gently but forcibly, until my back is flat on the bench.

  “Wait!” I say. Hauser doesn’t listen, instead he places one meaty forearm across my forehead, and the other across my chest.

  The scientist steps into view, holding a syringe. “I’m going to numb you. This won’t hurt a bit. Can you hold still?”

  I nod as best I can, despite Hauser’s pressure on my head and chest.

  The scientist leans forward, peels back my lip, and jams a spacer into my jaw. I can only watch as he lifts the syringe toward my mouth. I feel a sharp prick as the needle goes into my gums near the back of my mouth. “I’ll be extracting a small core from a back molar. We just need a sample, and I will fill it right back up for you. If we do this right, then no dentist will ever think twice about it.”