Tunnel Vision

by Susan Adrian

  I’ve set myself two major tasks next. First: go to Liesel again, practice controlling on a harder subject—and learn more if I get her near her files. Second: steal an object from Eric, and get started on him. That one will be the toughest. If I can even do it.

  It’s a Thursday—I’ve still kept track of that. There’s some meeting or holiday or something, I don’t know what, and the small army of techs is away, so no machines. Liesel and Eric are both here, though. Eric and I do a set of objects from my room, like we used to. “Tennis on Saturday,” he says when we’re done. “If everything’s smooth between now and then.”

  Then he takes off, the door sliding shut behind him. I dive for my bed. It’s time to go visit Liesel.

  She’s looking at one of her screens, scrolling through a page. The banner at the top says Intelink-TS. There, she thinks, stopping on a name. She picks up the phone, dials a short number. “Roger. What about Target 14–532? Do we have any potential objects on him?”

  The voice on the other end is calm, even. “That’s Mulcahy’s. You know he doesn’t believe in any of that—”

  She interrupts, irritation surging through her. “I don’t care if he thinks I’m a certified wacko. Get me an object, and I’ll find his man before Monday.” She hangs up, her hand still resting on the phone. Why do they continue to doubt this project, even with all the successes? Why are they reconsidering the funding? Haven’t they proven themselves by now? Fools, protecting their traditional methods. Stuck in the past, that’s all. They’ll all have to believe in her—in him—eventually. If she can solve this T-680 problem. He is having hallucinations. It’s obvious. And they’ll just keep getting worse.

  Hallucinations. That’s what’s happening. It’s a goddamn side effect of the drug.

  Concentrate, Jake. That’s not the mission.

  My file is there on her desk, closed. Open it to the first page, I think. You want to remember how all this started.

  She resists, turning back to the screen, her fingers moving across the keys.

  I try again, deeper, feeling her fingers, the pressure of the keys under them. You need to look at the file. There’s something there at the beginning. Remember, how you first found out? Maybe it would be useful now … with the T-680 problem …

  Her fingers stop, and I take the pause to move them to the file, just a nudge. She does. Her thumb plays with the tab.

  Open it, I prod again, slightly. She’s too smart to push hard, to force. What was that in the file? At the beginning?

  She opens the file, runs her finger down the first page. A bio of the subject. No, she knows all that. She turns a few pages, allowing herself one moment of pride. The party. A report from Dr. Timmerman: her daughter told her a rumor that John’s son, Grigory’s grandson, has a strange psychic ability. The daughter’s boyfriend let it slip, and after all these years of waiting, watching, she jumped on it.

  The Tunnel would never guess how Liesel had set up the party, the game, the drugged punch that suppressed inhibition. The encouragement, started by Dr. Timmerman’s daughter, who didn’t even know what she was doing. The camera to record it all.

  And finally, finally she got him. Got one of them. John would never forgive her, she knew that. But he was past forgiving or not forgiving. And she’d done it.

  Something’s wrong. I can’t pull away. I’m sticking inside her skin, like gum on a shoe. Every time I try to come out, it feels like I’m stretching, cracking. She’ll feel it unless I get out now.

  I yank as hard as I can and finally get free. I tuck the pen between the mattresses and lie on the bed, panting. The story gets worse and worse every time I learn something. Chris. That sleepover when we were seven. And Chris told Caitlyn. Liesel set up the party to prove it, then lied about a threat and brought me in to test me more.

  It had all been a grand plan. How long had she been watching me, anyway, waiting to see if I showed something? My whole life?

  Is that why she was watching Myka, too? Got one of them. Something to do with Dad, with Dedushka, even bigger than me?

  And she knew Dad. John would never forgive her. How had she known Dad?

  The headache crashes into me like a freight train.

  I can’t scream. Can’t get medicine to stop it. Can’t react at all, or they’ll suspect. Search me. Stop me.

  Jesus. Please … stop. My head explodes, surge after surge of pain. A volcano. I go rigid, arch. Grip the sheet. Hold on enough to not make a sound. Agony. It’s ripping me apart. It will. I can’t breathe. I’m not breathing. Fighting, fighting the pain—

  * * *

  I must’ve passed out.

  When I come to, my head still hurts, but it’s a hammer instead of a machete—a dull, constant pounding. I breathe, slow, steady, eyes closed, dealing with it. Feeling oddly victorious.

  I made it through a headache without T-680. I successfully hid it.

  And considering that T-680 is apparently causing fucking hallucinations that Liesel knows about and isn’t telling me, it’s probably a good thing not to pile more into my body.

  I wish I could flip off the camera, and Liesel, who I know is watching. Ha. I fooled you, for once.

  I can’t, won’t. I’m still collecting information, playing along.

  But with every bit of info I learn, I keep seeing more pieces of the puzzle that don’t quite fit.

  What’s going on with Dad and Dedushka and Liesel? Dedushka has some mysterious abilities, maybe like mine—I knew that from before. But what else? How is it connected with the rest of my family? And why me?

  28

  “Fake It” by Brad Sucks

  Saturday. Tennis with Eric.

  The next step.

  Problem is, Eric doesn’t carry any personal objects on him. No handy hair clips, no briefcase with pens and paper and things that count as his. He only carries in the metal box of objects, prepped for him by Liesel or some other grunt in the food chain. He wears Dockers and collared shirts every day. The only thing personal on him is his watch, and there’s no way I can get that off his wrist.

  Except for tennis: he always brings the black duffel bag, and I know it has his spare clothes in it. Clothes should work. It’s the best shot I have.

  But I come and go from tennis with the awful hood on, my hands shackled behind my back, Eric with me the whole way. So how can I steal anything from the bag?

  When he comes to get me, I reluctantly let him put the hood and cuffs on. We wind our way through wherever-the-hell in the building, up down and all around. I still hate it. These are the worst moments I have.

  Finally, we get to the tennis room. I can see, hear, and move my hands again. Thank God. I have a sudden image of being isolated like that for hours, days. How long would it take to go insane?

  “I still can’t believe she lets me do this,” I say truthfully.

  He shrugs with a smile. “She’s not as bad as you think. Most of the time she is trying to do her best for you, y’know. My advice: don’t question it. Take what you can get.”

  Like any of you care about anything except what you can get from me. I shove the thought away, smile back, and pick up a racket.

  I play hard. Slamming the ball across the net, killing him with impossible serves. Making him trot back and forth across the court, chasing where I lead him. It feels good, powerful. Like I’m a real person again.

  “What’s got into you today?” he asks, using his shirt to wipe the sweat off.

  I shrug, serve. I take the first set 6–4, the second 6–3.

  Eric holds up one hand. “Lunch.”

  We sit in the same place, against the wall at the middle of the court, and he passes out lunch and drinks from the bag. I pop the Coke, take a long sip. Then I set it down carefully next to me and absently hit it with my elbow—on its side, the sticky brown liquid running under my butt. I take a bite of my sandwich, pretend not to notice.

  “You’re an animal today, mate.” His face is bright red, blotchy. He tries to open h
is bag of Cheetos, fingers slipping. Finally he wipes his hands on a dry spot of the shirt. “I’m going to have to bring a towel if you keep playing like that. Taking out some aggression?”

  Too damn smart.

  “I’ve got to get it out somewhere,” I say, cool. “The only other way I’ve got is Halo.”

  The Coke’s soaking into my shorts. Just a little more.

  He snorts. “I never got into those games. I guess if you use a gun in real life, it loses the appeal.”

  “I’d be happy to use a gun in real life.” I pause, lift an eyebrow. “You want to give me one?”

  He laughs. “Sure. Right after I give you the key to your room and an escort out of the building. No problem.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Shit.”

  “What?” He jumps up, on high alert just like that.

  I stand. There’s a puddle where I was sitting, and the whole butt of my shorts is dripping with Coke. I lean over to right the can. “Fuck.”

  “Dude.” His mouth twitches. He’s trying not to laugh. Good. “How did you not notice that?”

  I shake my head. “I thought it was just sweat. Now what am I going to do?”

  I hold my breath.

  “Stop the match and go back to your room with a wet ass?”

  Not what I want. “C’mon. It’s bad enough to be pushed around clueless with my hands cuffed. I can’t go all the way back like this, parading in front of who-knows-who, generals and spies. It looks like I shit my pants.”

  “It looks like you spilled Coke on your pants. Relax, Grace.”

  I can see him wavering, thinking of options. The easiest one, Eric. Right there. But I have to let him think of it.

  “All right. You can borrow my spare pants.” He digs them out of the bag, tosses them to me. Tan Dockers, like always. “Leave the shorts here. I’ll send somebody to get them washed.”

  Yes.

  The plan had some variables, yeah. But even if it hadn’t worked, it was a low-risk operation. Worst case was I didn’t get the pants, but it was pretty doubtful they’d suspect anything.

  He turns his back, starts collecting the gear. I peel off the sopping shorts, pull the Dockers up. It feels odd, since I haven’t worn anything but shorts for months. They’re about an inch too short, and too wide around the waist—I am skinny now—but they’ll do perfectly for what I need.

  He finishes with the trash, the gear, and mops up the rest of the puddle with the shorts, leaving them sitting there.

  He eyes me, mouth twitching again. “All right. Suit up. I guess you’re the winner for today.”

  He puts the hood and cuffs on, and we make our tortured way back to the room. When he takes off the hood, the fluorescent lights glare at me.

  God, how I hate this place.

  He crams the hood and cuffs in his bag, then turns to me. “I need the pants back now.”

  There’s a beat, while his eyes search mine. Too damn smart. Don’t question, don’t question, adapt the plan. “Sure,” I say, completely even. “Let me just change in the bathroom. Give me a minute.”

  He sighs. “You just changed—” But he stops. I never change in front of the cameras, in front of whoever might be watching. It’s the principle of the thing. And what can I do in the bathroom? “Fine.”

  I grab a pair of shorts from the dresser and shut myself in the tiny bathroom.

  Think, Jake. You’ve got about a minute.

  I don’t need the whole pants. All I need is a tiny piece from somewhere. I tug them off, try to rip a piece of fabric from the bottom cuff. Too thick: not possible. I can’t take a button—he might notice it, put it together that I did all this on purpose. It has to be from somewhere he won’t notice.

  The tag. The thinnest piece of fabric. I try to tear off a strip, but still can’t get it. I need scissors.

  Damn it. Tick tick tick. I have about ten seconds before he gets suspicious.

  There’s nothing in the bathroom but a toilet, a sink, a shower with a clear door. Nothing sharp.

  I need more time. I lift the toilet seat loud, let it clank. Turn on the faucet low to sound like pissing.

  Then I look at the toilet.

  Silently I lift the top off the back, peer in. There has to be something … there. There’s a small pin hooked to the overflow pipe. Metal, like a paper clip partly straightened. I jerk it out, push it through the bottom of the tag, and rip for all I’m worth. It takes three tries, but I get it. A tiny strip off the tag, no more than a few rows. The tag just looks frayed. I hope it’s enough.

  I replace the pin and the lid, turn off the water, and flush the toilet. I pull up my own shorts, tucking the tiny, vital piece of fabric deep in the pocket.

  When I come out Eric’s leaning against the wall by the door, arms crossed. I fold the Dockers, hand them over. “Thanks. Sorry, they got a little Coke on the back.”

  He unfolds them and does a quick once-over, checking that all the buttons are there.

  See.

  “No problem. No objects today, so you’ve got the rest of the day off, unless Liesel comes up with something.” He grins, a flash of the old Eric I trusted. “See you Monday, Jake.”

  I nod, fall into my chair, and fire up the X-box as he leaves, for cover.

  No, Eric. If all goes well, I’ll see you tonight.

  * * *

  I don’t expect to get any intelligence from this tunnel—Eric probably doesn’t have much intelligence for me to find. Handpicked or not, he’s an agent and enforcer for Liesel, a worker bee like Bunny was, but not an equal. I don’t figure she tells him many of her secrets.

  This trip is just to see if the cloth worked, and test if I can control him.

  I lie on the bed until the lights go off, close my eyes, and pinch the cloth between my fingers. Here we go.

  It comes right away. I surge past my own relief into him.

  A man. Stocky, red haired, freckle faced. Wearing a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Location: New York, Brooklyn. An apartment on Flatbush Avenue—192, Apartment 8B, just north of Prospect Park. He’s doing the dishes in a tiny, cramped kitchen not meant for cooking or doing dishes. This whole apartment wasn’t meant for a family. Still, he’s glad they can be together, for a while.

  “Eric?” A woman’s voice floats from a back room. “Come and say good night.” He smiles to himself. He dries wet, soapy-slick hands on a rough towel, takes the few steps to the bedroom. There they are, his boys, his girl. The two boys are curled together, head to toe, in a crib stuffed into the space at the foot of the double bed. He squeezes the woman’s neck, briefly, and she sighs in pleasure. He leans over, the crib rail pushing into his belly, and kisses each baby on a fat little cheek. This is happiness, he thinks. This is worth it.

  I almost want to stop. For the first time it feels like real intrusion, like I’m somewhere I’m not supposed to be. But this test is too important. I go deeper, spread myself thin.

  Feel his calmness, centeredness. He knows about the threats out there, the danger. He knows all about the harshness of the world. But that isn’t here, in this apartment, with Joanna. He circles his arms around her in the dark bedroom. She’s soft, still with the extra baby weight, her breasts bigger, swollen. He likes it, pulls her tighter against him. Stiffens. Leans in to kiss her.

  Here’s my chance to test. Lick her instead, I think. Lick her. You want to taste that skin next to her mouth, there. Quick, a small taste.

  He leans in and licks her, a stripe across her mouth. She squirms away, frowning. “Eric! Why did you do that?” She wipes at her face. He shakes his head, laughs, low. “I don’t know. I just wanted to.” Then he pulls her close again, kissing her for real.

  I come away. Enough. Much as I ache to have a little of that, I’m not going to do it through Eric, with Eric’s wife, in front of his babies.

  Who would’ve thought he had a wife, a family? With my assignment alone he’d been gone for weeks, undercover at school, and then here. I’d assumed he was single, available to
go wherever DARPA sent him. Are field agents even allowed to have families?

  What a weird life. And he chose it.

  But in the end it doesn’t really matter. I have an object, and I proved I could do it. I went to him and made him do something he wouldn’t have otherwise. A grand slam for the day.

  I wish I didn’t feel uncomfortable about it. But it doesn’t matter. I have to ignore my feelings now. All the pieces are in place. So far, the plan is working. Now it’s time for the next phase.

  I need to recruit some outside help.

  29

  “Connection” by the Rolling Stones

  I try to connect to Myka, every night, for hours.

  I grit my teeth, fists clenched, trying as hard as I can. I focus on her: her long, thin face hiding behind her hair, her knobby legs, her clear eyes. The way she loves numbers and chemicals, the lab smell of Lysol and Bunsen burners, or reading a thick book in her room. The way she read all the Harry Potter books three times but didn’t like the movies.

  I try to imagine what she might be doing now, at 9:20 p.m. It’s hard to be sure, since I don’t know even what month it is. Is she doing homework? Asleep already? On summer vacation, watching TV? I try to go, to feel her, to connect with her like I used to.

  I can’t do it. I stare at the dim, white ceiling in total failure.

  I don’t have an object from her, and I can’t get one. But I thought … maybe … I could tunnel to Myka without one. My connection has always been stronger, deeper with her than anyone else. If I could do it with anyone, it would be her.

  But no matter what I try, I slam into a brick wall of nothing. It doesn’t work.

  Maybe it’s because so much has happened in the past few months. She thinks I’m dead—maybe our connection is cut off. Or maybe it’s just a real, hard-core limitation of tunneling, and I need an object no matter who I’m tunneling to.

  Damn it. I need help to get out of here. I don’t know how to get out without help. I’m not sleeping, and every waking moment is spent lying, pretending to be the ignorant dunce they think I am. Plus I’ve had a couple more headaches, and more T-680, since they don’t have any other solutions. The hallucinations are getting worse. There are multiple visits a day now, from everyone I’ve ever met. Chatting to me, telling me nonsensical things. Wandering around the cell singing numbers from Oklahoma.