“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. Our program will begin in five minutes.”
Tom looked for the chief of staff and found him slowly moving toward a VIP table, front and center. Then he saw the Giamattis, not too far away, walking the ballroom with angry, searching eyes while trying to be polite and accommodating to the many acquaintances who approached to say hello.
“Shit,” said Tom, seeing the Giamattis turn in his direction.
Tom quickly moved across the ballroom, dodging people on a path to find their seats. He slipped behind a large lighting truss, obscured from view as the Giamattis walked right past him. Tom quickly moved on, in a new direction. He stepped out of the ballroom and back into the lobby.
There, he saw several people in white catering uniforms marching back and forth between the ballroom and a service kitchen, carrying full trays of food. A team of security guards stood in measured intervals across the lobby with blank expressions and probing eyes. Tom put his head down and followed one of the catering employees into the kitchen.
Tom’s presence in the kitchen was immediately met with suspicion. “Who are you, what are you doing here?” snapped a busy young man in a stained white shirt, with curly hair and dripping perspiration.
Tom made up a line about being from the president’s security staff and ‘checking things out’.
“Go about your business,” Tom told the sweaty young man.
“I’m going to ask my manager about this,” came the response with a doubtful glare.
Tom said, “Go ahead.” He proceeded to walk through the kitchen area with a stern look of purpose. Once he was out of the young man’s sight, he slipped into a storage room and closed the door.
Standing under a single light bulb, among shelves of bulk food supplies, Tom considered his next move. He could hear an amplified, muffled voice booming from the ballroom, delivering a set of evenly paced remarks. He guessed it to be the governor introducing the afternoon’s special guest.
Tom’s legs were shaking. He sat down on a box of canned pineapple slices. He was apprehensive about stepping back into the ballroom. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone discovered and apprehended him. Then, he had a premonition. He had a strong feeling he would not survive to see the next day.
The fanfare in the ballroom grew louder. Listening to the blur of words coming from the governor, mixed with large outbreaks of applause, Tom knew what he had to do. He thought about Emily and Sofi and fought back tears. He took out the note he had written for the president’s chief of staff and added something to the bottom of it.
Under the message, I need to talk to you about the Gemini Experiment, Tom wrote Steven Morris’s cell phone number.
Then Tom whispered a small prayer. He prayed to whatever waited in the afterlife.
The governor’s voice rose to a boisterous bellow, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. He introduced President Gus Hartel. The crowd became a unified roar, followed by chants of “Four more years!”
Tom knew the president was taking the stage at that very moment. A loud, thundering ovation shook the east end of Navy Pier.
Tom stood up, ready to fulfill his mission.
He stepped out of the storage room. He moved out of the kitchen services area. He walked across the lobby and reentered the noisy ballroom as the president reached the podium.
President Hartel raised his hands, triumphant, gesturing with both thumbs up. The crowd stood and cheered in appreciation, packing the elegant, white dinner tables that filled the room. Tom observed the audience’s happy, beaming faces. Every pair of eyes focused on the president, basking in his presence with unwavering loyalty.
Standing behind the podium, his face amplified on large projection screens, the president launched into his prepared remarks. He spoke in rich patriotic tones about America and freedom. His message drew frequent bursts of applause as he said all the right words, continuing on his well-paved course to re-election. Tom knew he was witnessing a massive scam. The phony president was holding back on showing any evidence of his true intentions – a secret agenda of evil that would change the world.
Tom calmly walked over to the chief of staff. Jarret Spero sat in his chair, eyes glued on the president. Tom dropped a folded piece of paper into his lap, startling his attention away from the speech.
“Excuse me, sir, this is for you,” said Tom. The chief of staff stared down at the small white square in his lap.
Very quickly, security began to move in. Tom slipped away from the table. The president continued his speech, but a growing number of audience members became distracted from the stage to the odd, stiff man who moved around the maze of tables as security officials came after him from all around the room. These men wore no-nonsense expressions with arms half-raised, ready for some kind of action. Several spoke into headsets, trading information. Tom knew that most likely he had been identified, the crazy lawyer from Wilmette wanted for a long list of crimes that would put him away for the rest of his shortened life.
Tom saw Mr. and Mrs. Giamatti seated at a table at the front of the room, heads turned from the stage and eyes watching him, scowling. Their mouths moved, delivering directions to staffers, probably sending their own people after him, and it was anyone’s guess who would get to him first.
Tom heard a man’s voice nearby, possibly one of the private security staff, offering a simple and civilized request: “Sir, please take your seat.” Tom felt bad he would have to disobey, because the man’s tone was surprisingly polite, not threatening, completely unaware that he was speaking to a very dangerous individual who was prepared to make international headlines.
The president was still delivering his speech into the lights, unaware of the commotion before him, when a man’s shout erupted from the front of the crowd. It was Tom.
Tom approached the stage, pushing as close as he could get. He pulled out a gun.
“The president is a fake!” he yelled.
As screams ignited around him, Tom pulled the trigger and squeezed off as many shots as he could. His arm shook uncontrollably and he gripped it steadily in his other hand, successfully landing several bullets into his target to the horror of the crowd.
Tom could see the president’s face contort as the bullets struck. He stared down at Tom with a fierce look, and for a moment he remained steady on his feet. Then he realized he could not act invulnerable on such a world stage and swooned from the shooting, performing a stagger of pain, responding like any mortal human would. He didn’t have time to fall. Instead, he was caught.
The president disappeared in a large swarm of Secret Service, Chicago police, private security, event staff and members of his own entourage.
Tom stopped shooting but the sharp, staccato crackle of gunfire continued. He spun from the impact, pummeled by an immediate onslaught of bullets from multiple directions. Each hit delivered a new burst of pain, puncturing his body like needles of fire, penetrating ordinary flesh and organs, tearing up his mortal being, and it was fine. It was okay. He’d known this would be coming.
The crowd around Tom erupted into chaos, a thundering stampede with chairs toppling, tables shoved aside and glass breaking. Tom felt his entire body run slick with blood. Strangers began jumping on him, flattening him to the ground, breaking his fingers to extract the empty gun, and he didn’t fight back. He wouldn’t fight back. He couldn’t fight back. He was done.
Mission accomplished. The president would be rushed to the nearest hospital where his artificial interior would be revealed, unraveling the Russians’ plot.
Pinned on his back, unable to move, Tom stared up into the majestic domed ceiling, the direction of heaven, and shut his eyes. He listened to the sound of hollers and shrieks from near and far, a harrowing chorus from hell. Beneath all the noise, he spoke softly because he had no energy to talk louder. He gasped and sputtered a simple explanation that no one heard.
/>
“He’s not our president.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“You piece of shit, I hope you die.”
Tom slipped in and out of consciousness in the back of the ambulance, hearing bits of commentary from the paramedics and his police escorts, none of it friendly. This was understandable, given the surface appearance of his actions. In a voice that croaked badly, choked up in his own blood, he tried to explain.
“That…wasn’t the president. It’s – it’s a robot.”
“What’s he babbling about?” asked an angry, ruddy-cheeked policeman hovering inches above him, face dominated by a big mustache.
“Just nonsense,” a disgusted paramedic said with a hissy voice as he steadied Tom’s life-support tubing out of obligation, not compassion. “He’s delirious.”
After several blocks of wailing, the ambulance siren abruptly cut off. The vehicle began to slow down. It pulled over to the curb and rolled to a complete stop. It was the first time the ambulance had ceased moving since leaving Navy Pier.
The ambulance crew became still, as if waiting for something.
“What’s—what’s going on?” Tom asked, unable to see through the windows in his position.
“We pulled over to let an ambulance get through,” said the paramedic.
“But we’re the ambulance,” Tom murmured, confused.
“This one is more important than you, asshole,” the paramedic said in a hostile tone.
Tom heard the other siren as it grew louder, louder and then shot past, spraying flashing light through the windows.
The president.
“You have to listen to me,” Tom said. “The president is a Russian spy. That’s not the real president.”
The police officer chortled, a brief escape of sad laughter. “I’ve heard some crazy conspiracy theories over the years, mister, but that’s the craziest.”
Tom wanted to say more but he was very weak from the loss of blood, and the damage to his organs was rapidly taking its toll. Every breath hurt inside. His torso felt ravaged. As a numbing wave of darkness crept over him, Tom heard the paramedic declare, quite confidently, that he probably wouldn’t survive his wounds.
Tom accepted his fate. He was going wherever people go when they perish on earth. It was the common denominator for all of mankind. His mind swam.
We get old, we die.
We get sick, we die.
We get shot up by a half-dozen security people at the president’s campaign rally and…we die.
Tom filled his thoughts with Emily and Sofi one last time. Then he lost all consciousness.
* * *
Feeling restless and confined, Emily put aside the magazine she was skimming and dropped it into a spilled pile of used reading material. Sofi had been complaining about boredom, quite rightly, and now requested a search for cartoons on the hotel room TV.
“Sure, honey, let’s see what’s on,” Emily said, moving out of her chair. She had avoided watching television ever since stumbling across news coverage of her husband robbing a diner and stealing a police car. She still hadn’t recovered from the shock, which lit her up with a terrible tension she couldn’t shake from her bones. Perhaps cartoons were just what the doctor ordered.
Emily picked up the remote from the side of the television, aimed it and clicked ON.
The television popped to life with a red and blue BREAKING NEWS banner cutting across a live feed of aerial footage of Navy Pier shot from a helicopter. A male and female news anchor team spoke in unnaturally shaky voices, as if they couldn’t believe their own words. They were recapping the latest developments in the shooting of the president.
“Oh my God!” said Emily.
Then it got worse. Much worse.
A photograph of the gunman filled the screen. He stared into the hotel room with big blue eyes as if trapped behind glass, the most gentle man she had ever known.
Emily began screaming and could not stop.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Tom woke up.
He quickly sensed this wasn’t heaven. It was a hospital room.
He was in a crisp, clean bed, surrounded by racks of medical equipment and monitors, facing a window with the drapes tightly pulled shut. Pillows propped up his head.
Tom was afraid to move. He knew he was not in the greatest condition, but he marveled over the complete lack of pain. He attributed it to heavy medication. His breathing felt comfortable. His mind felt a little foggy but rapidly sharpened like a lens being twisted for better focus.
“Hello.”
The greeting came from Steven Morris. He stepped into Tom’s view. He was smiling, cleaned up. His arm was in a sling.
“Steven,” said Tom. His voice felt thick from sleep. “I’m so glad to see you. I didn’t expect to make it out alive. I know you must think I’m crazy, but I had to do something…dramatic. They were going to kill everyone who knew. They could have gone all the way with it.…”
Then Tom paused and asked, “The president – is he dead?”
“No. The president’s not dead. But you are.”
Tom realized that perhaps his mind was not as clear as he thought. “What?” For a moment, his environment became a surreal dream.
Steven held up a newspaper headline from the Chicago Tribune:
President expected to survive; shooter Tom Nolan dies.
“I’m not dead,” Tom said. Then he had to ask, “Am I?”
Steven put down the newspaper and moved closer. Tom stared at him. Steven was real, not an illusion. Tom could feel the texture of the bedsheets in his grasp. He was alive. He felt good.
“Your human lifeform has died,” Steven said. “But before it died, we were able to digitize your brain and create a cartridge…like we planned to do all along.”
“You did it?” said Tom, stunned. “You transferred me?”
“Yes.”
“To where?”
“Very few people know about this. And it will stay that way.”
“Know about what?” Tom asked.
Steven continued, “That note you gave the chief of staff. It mentioned the Gemini Experiment. Obviously that’s highly classified. It got their immediate attention. They tracked me down through my phone. The president’s inner circle – the ones who know about all this – they took me into custody. It was chaos, as you can imagine. But I told them everything, Tom. Everything.”
“Good,” said Tom. “That’s what I wanted.”
“They went into lockdown mode. They took immediate control of the situation. The CIA moved in. They took over the mansion. They sealed it off, they locked down the lab. They took over a wing of the hospital, they set up a command center. They created a narrative that was delivered to the press.”
“What narrative?”
Jarret Spero cautiously stepped into the room. He peered at Tom through his wire-rimmed glasses, serious at first, then breaking out in a big grin. He shut the door quickly behind him and approached the bed.
“You, sir, are a hero,” he said.
Tom smiled a little. “I’m just glad to be alive.”
“You saved the president of the United States,” said Jarret. “He’s going to be all right. In fact, he has a press conference in about twenty minutes to show the world he is safe and strong. This is monumental. With the addition of public sympathy over this terrible attack…the president is a lock for re-election.”
“But wait,” Tom said, head still sorting through the information. “The Russians.…”
“All members of the Russian spy cell have been apprehended,” said Jarret. “They’ve been removed from circulation quickly and quietly. Their digital minds have been ejected from their shells and isolated in a vault in an undisclosed location. It’s all taken care of. There’s no need for the public to become alarmed by any Russian t
hreat. It’s over.”
“Then wait. Who is…?” Tom stopped and let his question hang.
Steven Morris and Jarret Spero glanced at one another.
“Who is…” repeated Tom. “The president?”
The two of them said nothing. They looked straight at Tom. Their smiles frightened him.
“And who…” Tom said, “am I?” He swiveled his head, looking for a mirror and found none.
Steven Morris and Jarret Spero continued to smile, holding back on saying anything, and in that moment Tom knew the answer.
“Oh my God,” he said. “You didn’t.”
“Yes,” said Steven. “We did. I personally handled the transfer.”
“Tom,” Jarret said, “and this is the last time I’ll address you as Tom. Please understand that we had no choice. It was absolutely necessary in the name of national security.”
“This can’t be happening.”
“The First Lady will be here in an hour. Don’t worry – she’s part of the inner circle.”
Tom jolted up in the bed, looking at the two men in horror. “What have you done to me?”
“We saved your life,” Steven said, trying to temper Tom’s panic.
Jarret spoke in a calm, direct tone. “We have made you the most powerful man on earth.”
Tom sank back into his pillows. He gave it deep thought. He touched his face.
“Oh no,” he said. “No, no, no.…”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Maintaining a slow, even pace, Tom walked the long, cleared corridor at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, accompanied by his chief of staff, headed for a brief dialogue with the press at the conference center up ahead. He wore a dark suit and red tie that fit perfectly and smelled new. His hair was neatly combed in place.
Jarret talked rapidly in Tom’s ear about what he should and shouldn’t say, feeding him the key messages that the world needed to hear.
“You will commend your security staff for their fast response in bringing down the shooter. You will mention that you were wearing a bulletproof vest, which saved you from significant injury. You can tell them you are feeling good, headed for a full recovery. You may be out of the public eye briefly, but you fully intend on continuing your campaign and leading the country for a second term. There will be no mention of Russians or robotics or anything of that kind. Tom Nolan was a lone gunman, a crazy man, and you will express sympathy for his family. Avoid gun control questions or anything political for now until you have had a full briefing on the administration’s position on key issues and public policy. Above all, never mention the Gemini Experiment. Do you understand?”
The Gemini Experiment Page 22