“I received a psychological evaluation,” Mike said. “It’s standard procedure.”
“Is it true that one of the psychiatrists who treated you also diagnosed you with Stockholm syndrome?”
“No. Not that I’m aware of.”
“But it’s possible,” Pam said. “Stockholm syndrome is—”
“I know what it is,” Mike said. “And I think I would have been informed if that diagnosis had been made. If what you’re asking is whether or not I sympathize with terrorists because I’m mentally ill, then the answer is a definitive no. Frankly, I find the suggestion in poor taste.”
“There’s no need to be aggressive,” Pam said.
To emphasize her point she pushed her chair back and deliberately looked over at the camera man as if worried things might be getting out of hand. Mike was about to stand up and walk off the set when there was a loud burst of static from the speakers in the studio. Pam suddenly pulled the earpiece out of her ear as if it had shocked her. A moment later the voice of the show’s producer came booming through the speakers.
“You’ve got him on the ropes, Pam. Let’s go in for the kill. Tell him you’ve seen another report suggesting he may also have been diagnosed with intermittent explosive disorder. That should send him over the edge. Pam? Can you hear me?”
“Turn it off,” Someone shouted from behind the camera. “And tell him to shut up.”
A moment later someone cut the live feed and the screens at the back of the studio went blank. Geraldine walked onto the set. “Come on, we’re leaving.” Then she looked at Pam and smiled. “Nice work, Miss Clark. And good luck finding a new job.”
She led Mike out into the parking lot. He thought she was going to launch into a tirade, but instead she laughed and said, “Holy shit, you should have seen that asshole’s face when he realized what was happening.”
“What was happening?” Mike said. “I was about to walk off the set.”
“I switched the feed,” Geraldine said.
“You did that?” Mike said.
“You’re goddamn right I did. And just in time. You heard him, they were going in for the kill. I just wish I could be there when they lose their broadcasting license for breach of conduct.”
Chapter 90
Washington DC
Sunday 24 June 2007
1900 EDT
Wentworth stood as soon as the door opened. His guest was in his late forties and underdressed for the surroundings, in a pair of faded jeans and a red T-shirt adorned with the Adidas logo.
“Gerry, thanks for popping in,” Wentworth said. “How’s being single again working out for you?”
“Not too bad,” Gerry replied. “Thanks to you.”
“And the kids?”
“They’re getting used to the new arrangement. I got every other weekend.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“That why I’m here?” Gerry asked. “To give you an update on my personal circumstances?”
“That, too,” Wentworth said. “Although I did want to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“A little bird told me the FBI had some trouble down in Richmond,” he began.
Gerry looked up, clearly surprised. “A little bird, hey?”
“Is it true?”
“Might be,” Gerry said. “You understand of course that I couldn’t possibly confirm a rumor of that nature.”
“No, of course not.”
“What else did this bird have to say?” Gerry asked.
“That they haven’t found the person or people responsible.”
“That it?” Gerry said.
“That the director might be up for early retirement.”
“Like I said, I couldn’t possibly comment on something like that.”
“I understand,” Wentworth nodded. “Well, give my best to Jackie when you see her.”
Wentworth took an envelope from the top drawer of his desk and slid it across the table. Gerry tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans without a word.
“You take care,” Wentworth said. “I hear the dating scene in DC these days is not for the faint of heart.”
“I think I’ll manage,” Gerry said. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
When he was gone Wentworth walked to the door of the bathroom and opened it. Stan and Ronny were standing, hand-in-hand, next to the sink. Both looked scared to death.
“Well?” Stan said.
“They haven’t identified you,” Wentworth said.
“Really?” Stan said. “Because to me it sounded like he didn’t have anything to say on the subject at all.”
Wentworth smiled and said, “He said everything he needed to. Gerry’s been a client of mine for over fifteen years. He’s also a security advisor to the secretary of state. If they’d managed to ID either of you from the CCTV footage he’d know. And you didn’t leave any prints, right?”
“I didn’t touch anything,” Stan said.
“And you’re sure your friend won’t talk?”
“Shooter?” Ronny grinned. “He wouldn’t know either of us from dog shit if we talked him through every minute we were there.”
“Then you can stop worrying,” Wentworth said. “If I hear anything to the contrary, you’ll be the first to know. For now I suggest you go back to your lives and forget this little episode.”
When he reached the door, Stan turned back to Wentworth. “It’s a shame, you know. I reckon that performance just might have won me a Golden Globe.”
Chapter 91
The Isle of Dragons
Monday 25 June 2007
0900 EEST
The landing site had undergone a remarkable transformation in the three days since the container arrived. Erik had reassigned three quarters of his crew, thirty men in all, to the job of resurrecting the old hangar. The frame was complete, and half of the roof was now in place. The fact that most of the materials had been taken from the Amity site gave the building an odd haphazard look, but no one was complaining.
Since their trial run with the rations, several additional items had been recovered by members of the RP One team. These included various items of uniform and protective clothing; a handheld sensor that detected trace elements in the ground such as minerals and bacteria; several tanks of what appeared to be fresh water; and a neck brace that turned out to be an emergency thermal body heating device for the treatment of hypothermia. Each of these had been passed on to the staff of Aurora who had set themselves with much enthusiasm to the task of studying the objects in-depth.
For this occasion, the work crew had been retired, leaving only Francis, Richelle, Erik, Titov and Naoko to witness what was sure to be one of the more interesting episodes in the history of mankind.
“You guys ready?” Mitch said over the radio.
Richelle raised her radio and said, “You want the truth?”
“Not necessarily,” Mitch said.
“Then yes, we’re ready.”
“Alright. Give us a second.”
The second turned out to be minutes. Forty-five of them. In the ensuing exchange all that anyone really understood on the container end was that activating what Watkins referred to as the “body of god”—the name sent a chill down Richelle’s spine every time she heard it—was considerably more complicated than anything they had tried so far. When the moment finally arrived it was accompanied by a yelp of triumph over the radio. Not long after this the container began to hum. They all felt the vibration as it spread into the ground beneath them.
“What’s going on?” Richelle said into the radio.
It was Watkins who answered. “The system is going through some kind of charge cycle. It’s going to take a couple of minutes.”
The vibration grew stronger. They saw Erik look up at the frame of the new hangar with clear concern.
“I don’t like this,” Richelle said. “Maybe we should ask them to shut it down.”
“Not yet,” Franci
s said.
He was about to add something when the vibration stopped. As it had on every other occasion, a section of the container began to extend outwards, only this one was the full height, almost twelve feet, and at least five feet thick. By the time it came to a stop it was protruding at least ten feet. Francis stepped forward and inspected one side, then walked around to the other.
“Guys,” Francis said. “You need to come see this.”
Francis was staring up in mute amazement. The others joined him a moment later and adopted identical poses. Standing behind what appeared to be a pane of thin glass was a man. At least it looked like a man. The figure was over ten feet tall and jet black from head to toe. Its features had been subtly exaggerated to project masculinity, like the statue of a god in the ancient world. This was most prominent in the high cheekbones and square jaw of the face, which seemed to stare down at them through its dead black eyes as if accusing them of being mere mortals. The only other thing that distinguished the figure from that of a real person was the fact that it had no genitalia.
“It makes sense now,” Richelle said.
“What does?” Francis said.
“The name,” Richelle said. “The body of god.”
When Mitch asked what they were all staring at, Richelle lifted the radio to her mouth without lowering her eyes. “I think it might be the devil.”
“The what?”
“I don’t know,” Richelle said.
Before Mitch could reply, the sheet of glass evaporated in front of their eyes and the figure stepped forward of its own volition. All five of them staggered back in horror. Naoko hit the ground on his ass and crawled back, crablike, on all fours, the look in his eyes that of a man who knows he is about to die. It wasn’t so much the fact that it had moved as how it had moved. There was no awkward series of jerky movements accompanied by the sound of spinning motors—the way most people imagined an actual robot would move—just a single fluid motion. The effect was enhanced by the fact that its outer skin appeared to be as elastic as the real thing, even though it had the texture of polished glass.
“Mitch, this thing is moving,” Richelle murmured, her voice low, as if it might be able to hear her.
“Yeah, we can see it,” Mitch said without a hint of concern. “We’re pretty sure that was supposed to happen.”
“Pretty sure’s not really good enough.” Her voice seemed strained. “If it moves again you shut it down.”
“We can’t,” Mitch said. “We’re not controlling it.”
“Then who the hell is?”
The question must have stirred a debate on board RP One, because the answer took a good thirty seconds to come, and when it did it offered little comfort.
“Until someone assumes control it’s probably on autopilot,” Mitch said. “There should be a helmet of some kind around there. Can you see a helmet?”
By this time Francis had gathered himself enough to begin a slow and cautious advance. Keeping his eyes squarely on the black giant he took one careful step at a time until he was only a few feet away. Titov and Erik were not far behind, but Naoko had opted to remain where he was.
“Francis,” Richelle said, “please don’t—”
Before she could finish he raised a hand and touched the figure just below the waist with his index finger. When it didn’t react, he put his palm against it.
“It’s warm,” Francis observed, then knocked on it as if it were a door. “And solid.”
Titov and Erik joined him and the three of them began prodding and touching the thing in a way that would have been most undignified, had it been human. Francis looked into the compartment and saw the helmet Mitch had referred to. It was nestled in a hole behind the recently vacated human-shaped depression in the container. He reached in and pulled it out, calling, “Hey guys, take a look at this.”
Titov and Erik joined him. They set to examining the artifact with the nonchalance of three neighbors standing around a barbecue grill, leaving Richelle and Naoko to look on in guarded wonder.
It looked a bit like a motorcycle helmet. It was roughly the same shape but had no visor, and the front extended down to cover everything but the mouth. The inside was lined with what felt like soft rubber.
“So?” Francis asked.
“I’m gonna pass,” Erik said.
“Give it here,” Titov said. “You only live once, right?”
“You sure?” Francis sounded more disappointed than concerned.
“I’ve never been sure of anything,” Titov said. “It’s what makes my life so interesting.”
Francis handed him the helmet. Titov took it and put it on his head.
“Anything happening?” Francis said.
“I can’t see, if that’s what you mean,” Titov said.
Richelle was walking towards them. She gave the robot a wide berth and stopped several yards away. “Mitch says that’s a bad idea. I happen to agree with him.”
“I’ll quite happily sign a waiver of liability if you like,” Titov offered.
“What I’d like,” Richelle said, “is for you to take the goddamned thing off so we can figure out what it is.”
Francis wasn’t listening. His attention had been drawn to the small red circle on the side of the helmet. But when he reached over and pushed it, nothing happened.
“Did you hear me?” Richelle said.
When Titov turned toward the sound of her voice, Francis saw there was another circle on the opposite side. He moved to shield his mouth from Richelle’s view and whispered, “There’s a small button on both sides about where your ears are. Try pushing them both at the same time.”
What happened next shocked everyone, most of all Titov.
Francis took a step back as Titov raised his hands. Richelle, thinking he was taking the helmet off, opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, then quickly closed it again as the big Russian collapsed. Erik and Francis managed to catch him by the arms before he hit the ground.
“Take it off him!” Richelle shouted.
They dragged him to the side of the container and leaned him up against it, but when Francis tried to pull the helmet off, it wouldn’t move. Then he realized why and quickly pushed both buttons. It still wouldn’t come off.
“Oh shit,” Francis said. “This isn’t good.”
Richelle, now on the edge of all-out panic, ran toward Titov and sank to her knees beside him. She began frantically pulling at the helmet, apparently oblivious to the fact that she would end up breaking his neck if she didn’t stop. Francis had to pull her arms away and grab her from behind in a bear hug. Just before the scene could turn into full-scale pandemonium, Titov spoke. “Relax. I’m fine.”
They all looked from Titov to the mouth of the figure in front of the container. The words had come from that mouth. Titov himself was still unconscious. Not only that but the voice had not been Titov’s. It was far too loud and much too deep to even be human. It actually did sound like the voice of God, at least the version of it one might hear in a Hollywood Bible epic of the 1950s.
“Titov?” Francis said. “Can you hear me?”
Instead of answering the black giant slowly raised its right hand in front of its face and looked at it with unmistakable curiosity. It flexed the hand several times, then repeated the gesture with the other.
“Titov?” Richelle said. “Is that you?”
The head of the figure slowly turned toward her and looked down, the face stone cold and full of malice. Then the corners of its rigid mouth turned up in a smile that was even more frightening. To Francis it looked like the smile Frankenstein might have reserved for his least-hated victim.
“This is amazing,” the monster said in its deep, foreboding voice.
The machine that was now Titov took a step forward and swerved to the right, stumbled, and almost fell. Then it/he was walking forward. Every step made the ground tremble. The motion was so fluid, so human, it was almost hypnotizing to watch. Nor did the fact that Titov
was now controlling it make it look any less dangerous. When he reached the first tree at the edge of the clearing, Titov grabbed at a branch thick enough to support a rope swing and tore it off as if it were a dry twig. He squeezed his hand into a fist and the branch disintegrated in a loud series of cracks, then he threw it in an arc that sent what was left sailing over the treetops.
“I’m seeing it,” Erik said, “but I’m not sure I can believe it.”
Titov turned back toward them and began walking. Only Francis stood his ground. When he was just a few feet away, Titov raised both hands to his head and pushed what would have been the buttons on the helmet. A moment later the real Titov did the same and pulled it off. For a moment he looked disoriented and just sat looking around. Then he saw Francis and smiled.
“You okay?” Francis said.
“Am I okay?” Titov said. “I’m a lot more than okay, my friend.”
“You had us a little worried there for a moment,” Francis said.
Titov got to his feet. “I could stand here and try to describe it to you, but why bother.”
Titov handed Francis the helmet.
“Guys…” Erik pointed toward the path leading to the research center. They turned to see Richelle stalking away.
“She’ll be okay. Although I’d keep that thing out of her reach for a while,” Titov said, pointing at the helmet.
Naoko, finally convinced there was no imminent threat to his life, walked over and handed Francis the radio Richelle had left behind.
“Mitch, you there?” Francis said.
“Please tell me that just happened,” Mitch said. “Did I just see Titov turn into a politically correct version of the Silver Surfer or have I lost my mind?”
“He did,” came the reply. “Although I can’t speak for your mind.”
“Holy shit!” Mitch crowed. “This is so fucking awesome I don’t know what to say.”
“Then I guess we’ve witnessed two miracles here today,” Francis said.
Origin - Season Two Page 30