by Susan Adrian
It’s a boy, maybe ten years old. Dusky skin, a small cap, a white caftan to his ankles. Location: Pakistan, Mingora. A large walled house down a side street off Haji Baba Road. It’s late, the stars bright above. The boy stands by a gate, shivering. He’s waiting for someone, a message. He’s worried something will go wrong, the messenger won’t come. Everyone would be angry. The boy scratches his foot, watches the full moon overhead. Not much longer. Footsteps. A man comes. It is the messenger, wrapped up so only his eyes show. He hands the boy a folded packet of news. The boy relaxes.
I open my eyes. “Is that enough?”
Bunny looks over her shoulder at the camera, goes still for a moment. “Yes,” she says quietly. “That’s perfect.”
“Wait. Are you wearing an earpiece?”
Her mouth quirks up. She isn’t going to answer. “Are you ready for another, Mr. Lukin, or do you need a break between?”
“Jake. And you know whoever is listening can just talk to me directly. I’m right here. They don’t need to mediate through you.”
She taps her pen on the paper, eyes on me. “This is how it’s going to work, Jake. At least for now.”
I rub my temples, shoving down the sudden burst of temper. For some reason out of everything, this—some faceless person watching us and giving her directions instead of just dealing with me—pisses me off. It makes me feel like a prisoner.
I’m going to have to get it through my thick skull that I am a prisoner. For life. And I’m making my mother sob like a baby right now.
“Jake?”
I lift my head. “Yeah. Fine. Let’s do another one.”
Bunny is still excited about the tunneling. I can see it in the way her small hands jump across the paper, the energy she flings out. It just makes me tired. And this is my first day.
She gives me another bag. I have the object in my hand before I realize what it is.
An air force ring. Silver. Stamped with an eagle. Dedushka’s ring. Dad’s.
“Oh, no.” I drop it back into the bag, seal it with one swipe. “I’m not doing that one.”
Bunny frowns. “But you have to do all the objects we give you.”
“That’s my grandfather’s,” I say loudly, like I’m speaking for a microphone. She flinches. “I will not help you track him.”
It’s silent while she listens to the voice in her ear, and I watch her.
“Very well,” she says finally. She takes the bag back and hands me another one. A silver pen.
I’ll work, I’ll do what they ask. Terrorists, smugglers, other people on the run: yes. I’ll tell DARPA where they are, spy on what they’re doing. That’s why I’m here.
Not Dedushka. Wherever he is, he’s safe from me.
21
“Cell” by Sunday Munich
Weeks go by like that.
I work with Bunny most days. Other than that, nothing changes except the TV shows, censored so they don’t have any news. Maybe they don’t want me to understand what I’m tunneling to. Maybe it would complicate things if I actually had a clue what was going on in the world.
I tunnel, sleep, eat, listen to music, play offline Halo, Call of Duty, and Top Spin. I play Death to Spies just for the irony, but nobody notices.
They’re careful never to leave anything personal in my room—everything, even utensils, is cleared out after sessions or meals. Even in the bathroom there’s nothing sharp, nothing I could use to hurt myself or anyone else, unless I want to drink shampoo. Nothing I could use to tunnel to anyone.
It’s controlled. Every second, every inch, is controlled, observed.
My mood flops all over the place, from anger to resentment to simply not giving a shit.
I try tunneling to Ana again, twice, but one time she’s asleep and the other time she’s in the kitchen, alone. But I think about Mom and Myka. All the time. Think about Stanford and tennis and Chris and skiing in the sunlight. Swimming at the pool in the summer, the bright smell of chlorine. Sitting in my corner of the graveyard, the rustle of the trees behind me, shooting the breeze with Pete. Tickling my sister. Eating spaghetti with my mom. And over and over, that moment in the hall with Rachel, her lips soft on mine, with the promise of more.
Things I will never, ever do again.
I see Dr. Tenney three times a week. We talk. It helps some. With no cameras, I trust him more than the others. I tell him how much I miss, and he acknowledges it. At the end of each session we do our tunneling practice, always to him, to try to go deeper. So far I’ve only managed a few seconds longer than that first time. The fear of getting stuck is too strong—I can’t get past it. But I keep trying.
It doesn’t click until we do something different.
“I have a treat for you today,” he says. It’s a Wednesday. I’ve been making sure I keep track. “I think you need a vacation.” He hands me a bag with a key in it.
I dangle the bag in my fingers. “The key to my room? Yes. You do know what I want.”
He smiles. “Just do it. When you go this time, I want you to keep going as deep as you can. This is a safe one that I set up just for you. I want you to feel what it’s like, to be that person.” He leans in. “As far as you can. Trust me.”
I throw him a look. We’ve been trying this for ages. I trust him to a point. But I don’t know if I can go deeper.
“You’ll be able to return. Do your best. And enjoy it.”
Enjoy it? I close my eyes. Let the glow, the buzz, come.
A man. Average height, muscled abs, bulky arms. Military haircut, black skin. He’s wearing only a pair of swim shorts and sunglasses. Location: Guam. The northernmost tip, Ritidian Beach. He’s lying on the sand, no one else anywhere near. The sand is white, clean. Tropical bushes and palm trees line the curve of beach behind his head. At his feet, a hundred yards away, clear, turquoise water sparkles in the sun. There are big concrete stacks, World War II bunkers, off to the right, in the water and on the beach.
I relax into him. I haven’t been to a real beach since we lived in Florida. I’d forgotten how great it is. Was. I wish this was real.
His eyes are closed, the sun a red glare through his eyelids. It’s warm, steady, but the breeze from the ocean keeps it cool. The only sound is the swoosh of the waves, the faint call of birds behind. The sand is soft under his shoulders, legs. He’s content, utterly relaxed.
I go deeper.
His name is Lance Buckley, but he thinks of himself as Buck. He doesn’t know how he scored this trip—assignment, whatever—but he owes God a big one. Best assignment he’s ever had. Just lie there on the beach, Buck.
Deeper, into his toes, arms, fingers. I have that sensation of wax hardening, stiffening, and start to panic. Stop. Push myself farther. Let it happen.
I am Buck. I can feel his strength, physical, mental. His ability to put everything he experiences—dark, scary stuff—into compartments he doesn’t visit again. He lives in the moment, and the moment, right now, is perfect. He stretches, flexes his toes. I suddenly want to turn his head, look down the beach. Turn his head. A simple movement. Lift, turn. Open your eyes. You want to look over there, Buck. See if anyone’s coming.
He turns his head. I turn his head. And open his eyes.
Just like that, without knowing I could, I controlled him. Enough presence in his mind to suggest that he wanted to make the movement. Enough presence in his body to make it happen.
I don’t want to leave Buck, leave the beach for my damn white cell. I am enjoying it. But I’m starting to feel lost, more caught up in him, less in me. Reluctantly I drag myself out and open my eyes.
God, I feel stiff, thin. Like Silly Putty stretched too far, cracking.
Dr. Tenney beams so hard it’s like he’s got a freaking flashlight inside him. “I knew you could do it. I knew you could move a subject, if you only went far enough. All my research pointed to it as the next step.” He scribbles on his pad, blue ink streaming. “Good God,” he says, almost to himself. “Think of the implica
tions. If we refine it, strengthen it. If we have an object, you could go anywhere, to anyone.”
Implications? So I moved some guy on a deserted beach. Big deal.
But I moved someone. Without their will. From a distance.
It takes me a minute or two, but I see it in a flash of clarity. The implications. If I can move someone from inside, without detection—I can make them do things they wouldn’t. I can make them write things. Sign things. Move a gun or a knife or a bomb.
Jesus Christ. I could be far more than an intelligence source. I could be a secret weapon.
“Don’t tell Liesel about this,” I say, fast. “We don’t know if I can do it again.”
“Oh, no,” Dr. Tenney says, writing, his head blaring in the lights. He sounds insanely cheerful. “I won’t tell her yet. Not this early. Once we’ve refined it, we can present to her the results of my research. Our success.”
“No,” I repeat, stronger. I lean forward. “Don’t tell her at all. I thought what happened in here was between us. Confidential, right?”
He glances up at me. “Until we had something to report. Don’t you see, Jake? This is a tremendous development. This is what we’ve been working toward. Your value has multiplied a hundred times. A thousand. She will have to know, when we’ve proven it.”
He goes back to writing.
Understanding settles deeply into my bones, at last. I feel awake, alive with it. More alert than I have been in weeks.
He isn’t my friend, or even my doctor. He wasn’t listening, pushing, to help me at all.
He’s simply been doing a side project, to develop the Tunnel as a weapon. That was his goal all along. He’ll get research bonanza. He’ll be a hero with Liesel and DARPA and whoever else. He doesn’t give a damn about me as a person. Just what I can do. Like all of them.
I’m not going to be their weapon. I’m never controlling someone again. Not for them.
While he’s busy with his frantic writing I lean down, under the table. I dip my hand into his briefcase and fumble through all the items there, until I find something that will work: one of the small notebooks, the kind I use to tunnel to him in practice. I pull it out carefully, eyes on him, and put it in my pocket.
I don’t know what kind of info I’ll get out of an off-hours tunnel to Dr. Tenney—but I’m going to find out. With the truth comes determination. I am done being a pawn, a schmuck, without any clue or control. I have the ability. It’s mine.
It’s time to find out what’s really going on around here.
* * *
The good thing about no windows is that I can make it dark whenever I want, just by lying still long enough. If I’m going to get any good info out of him, it’ll probably be while he’s still in the building. Before he heads back to Washington or Georgia or wherever.
So after that tunnel, it’s clearly time for poor worn-out government asset Jake to take a nap.
I lie on the bed, perfectly still, hands in my pockets, until the lights go out. A few minutes longer, for buffer. Then I grip the notebook in my hand, still in the pocket, and focus.
I go through the usual description of him, my brain telling me who he is and where. Montauk, Long Island, yeah yeah.
He’s walking down a hallway on the second floor. The walls are pure white. These aren’t cells, but offices, with normal wooden doors that open. He stops at one, knocks. There’s a muffled answer, and he goes inside. Dr. Miller sits at a desk in an office cluttered with boxes, in a black suit, her hair pulled back tightly. She gives him a full, real smile.
“Samuel,” she says. “You did it. Very well done.”
She knows what he did already? What I did? So he was lying about not telling her yet?
I’m starting to feel uncomfortable in him already. Too close, too much, after the long tunnel to the beach. I don’t want to go that deep again right now. If I get a headache they’ll know what I was doing.
I pull away, open my eyes. Take a breath, two, let myself settle. Clear.
Then I go back in. Just for a second.
He’s speaking. “I did tell him you’d have to be informed, eventually. But he thinks you don’t know anything yet. We should keep it that way for a while, while we develop this. He is much more free with me when he believes it is confidential.”
“Yes.” She taps her nails on her desk, considering. “I still want you to get more information from him about Grigory Lukin. I cannot leave that thread dangling. We have to find him and close the loop.” She frowns. “The Soviet records are sealed too deep for me to access. But we know he has abilities of some kind, that he was of value to the military. We may be able to use him too. And then maybe we won’t have to struggle so hard to prove ourselves.”
I yank out of it, breathless, my head fuzzy. I have to stop there. But I learned a lot in a few minutes.
One: Dr. Tenney lied to me the whole damn time about the sessions being private. He’s been reporting everything I said to her. There’s probably a bug or something. And the two of them had always been plotting to make me go deeper, to make me into a weapon.
It’s not going to happen.
Two: Dedushka has “abilities” and was “used” by the Soviet military. That odd conversation in the car makes so much more sense now. The tracker, him wanting to run. “Do not trust them for a second,” he’d said. “I have experience. And so did your father.”
What does Dad have to do with all this?
One thing for sure—that wasn’t my last private tunnel to Dr. Tenney. And I’m going to find a way to tunnel to Liesel too. It’s the only way I’m going to get any answers.
Still in the darkness, I hide the notebook between the mattresses, where I can reach it without triggering lights. After discovering all the lies so far? That every one of them is lying to me? I am going to get answers.
22
“Lies” by Billy Talent
How do you spy on professional spies when you’re under twenty-four-hour surveillance, without giving them any clue you’re onto them?
Very carefully.
I don’t want to confront them on anything I’ve learned—it’d just give them more chances to mess with me, to take away my object.
But I’m not going to stay in here the rest of my life. Not anymore.
Bunny bubbles in the next morning, carrying her metal box. “Hello, Jake. We have hostage work today. From the FBI.”
I go straight to the table. If I can actually save somebody? I figure it balances out all the people I … actively help to not save, every day. A little.
She opens the box and pulls out the first bag; a small, gold dangly earring.
My chest tightens. A woman hostage. Okay. Go.
She’s too thin, hollows under her cheeks. Her hair is dark with grease and dirt, stringing over her face. Location: Alaska. Harding Lake, forty-four miles south of Fairbanks. A cabin on the east side of the lake, in the trees at the end of Friendly Road. She’s on a bed in the corner of the one-room cabin, handcuffed to the metal frame. A man sits in a chair, watching her. He licks his thin lips, slow, eyes never leaving her face. She’s terrified. Hopeless. No one knows where she is. No one can save her. She’ll die here.
I come out of it quick. “Enough?”
Bunny pauses. “Yes. Thank you.”
I go to the mini-fridge for a Coke and suck it down, eyes unfocused. The hostage ones rattle me. It’s harder to be in their heads than the bad guys, the people who are wanted for their own choices. But they’re still why I do this. For now.
After a while I circle back to the table, take a deep breath, and drop into the chair. Silently Bunny passes the next bag over.
It’s a girl’s diary, a fancy one with pink and green swirls all over the cover, and a small gold lock. Myka had one like that when she was nine or ten, pink and silver. She’d been so protective of it I hadn’t even had the heart to spy, to find out who she thought was cute and which friend was fighting with who.
Deliberately I pull this one
out of the bag, run a finger over the swirls. It makes me feel close to Myk somehow. Even though this isn’t hers. Even though she’s far away.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Sucking, empty blackness. Painful. Frost filling up my veins.
I gasp out of it, my hand still flat on the cover, and shove it away. It slides too far, into Bunny’s lap. “Dead,” I manage.
That little girl, whoever she was. Too late to save her.
Bunny’s eyes look big in her face. “Do you need to stop?”
I swallow, breathe, shake my head again. Not if there are some in there I can save. She takes her time wrapping the book in its bag, settling it in the box. Like a good umpire brushing off the plate, giving the catcher time to recover from a hit to the groin.
When I’m ready I hold up a hand, and she passes me the next one.
We do two more. One is alive, and hopefully will stay that way if responders can get there fast enough. The last—another woman, her object a mini–Big Ben—isn’t.
Did she get to Big Ben before she died? I’ll never know. Or her name.
Bunny sits a minute, looking at the box, her pale hair swinging around her chin. A pink blush creeps across her cheeks as I stare at her.
She’s almost pretty, with the pink. And looks young, almost my age. Of course I haven’t seen a girl other than her and Liesel for a couple months—and I see Bunny almost every day—so maybe I’m losing perspective. But I think she might have a little crush on me, if she’d let herself.
I miss Rachel. I wish, powerfully, that she were here right now. Just for an hour. Even if I couldn’t touch her, just talk. About movies I haven’t seen, comics I haven’t read. I’d even take that.
But I’ll never see Rachel again. Even if I do get out of here. She thinks I’m dead.
Bunny lifts her eyes to mine. “I know it’s hard for you, being here. I hope you know we’re doing good work. We’re making a difference in this room.”
Dedushka’s voice echoes in my head. “At the expense of yourself? They will take everything from you, these people. They will suck you up until you are dry and then toss you away.”