The New Authority Conspiracy (The Keeley Dorn Adventures Book 1)

by J. S. McClelland

  “It was an unconventional situation for me as well,” I said quietly.

  Skepticism/wariness, or possibly… perplexed/irritation? His guard was up and he was not easy to read.

  He tilted his head. “What do you mean by that?”

  I showed him apologetic/worried. “There was nothing about it that could be considered normal. Your friend misled you.”

  He blinked with surprise.

  If he wanted to kill me he could have done so. If he wanted to hand me over to the rapid-strike enforcement squad searching for me he could have done that as well.

  I certainly couldn’t outrun him, even if I had a hint of which direction to go.

  With so few options, appearing to cooperate was the best course of action.

  “So what were you doing out there?” he asked.

  “I wish I could tell you, but I don’t know.”

  He contemplated that statement. “How did you get there?”

  “I have no memory before waking up at the base the day before you arrived.”

  He leaned forward. “No memory at all?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  He rubbed his chin, pondering. “What is the first thing you do recall?”

  I took a slow breath. “Skee, leaning over me, telling me that he had to leave, but that someone would come for me. He seemed to know me, and for whatever reason was compelled to help.”

  My instincts prevented me from recounting the entire story. What would he say if he knew three people had died trying to liberate me from the ocean base and that enforcement officers were responsible for killing them? I could afford to tell him most of the truth, but certainly not all of it.

  He spoke deliberately. “Tell me everything you experienced after first waking up.”

  “Of course.”

  He sat perfectly still and watched me with glittering eyes.

  I began the story on the moment Skee left the base in the airship and detailed my movements, including finding ways to keep warm, sorting through the contents of the survival kit, and using the discarded bowl to collect drinking water.

  It seemed appropriate, so I mentioned the agony of trying in vain to recall who I was and where I came from. Though annoyance, rather than agony, was more like the feeling that I had experienced, he seemed satisfied that my stated emotions were reasonable reactions to the uncertainty of the situation.

  When I completed the tale, he was looking at me, but not really seeing me. His mind was busy scanning the story for flaws, hints of deception, or statements he could point to as false.

  So far I hadn’t told him anything impossible, merely improbable.

  When he spoke again his tone was a bit less accusatory. “Now, tell me how you made your way to the archive building and somehow managed to reach level 40 inside two days.”

  “You want to know everything?” I asked.

  “Every detail.”

  “If you wish.”

  I described my movements after he’d delivered me to the city and stopped at the point where the two men had walked inside the archive building to kidnap me. I omitted the indiscriminate sex with Hammon, neglected to tell him about dropping from balcony to balcony to commit burglary in the Watership building, but admitted to stealing from local shops to obtain a disguise and asking for help from clerical workers.

  “You’re damn resourceful,” he said.

  “I have been very lucky.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How did you get so far if you don’t remember anything?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. I know this language, I understand instinctively social customs and I seem to be able to recall things that are critical to survival.”

  “Like how to hide from someone searching for you using thermal scanners,” he said.

  I didn’t respond.

  “Have you told me everything?” he asked.

  I did my best to look abashed. “I was afraid of you the first time I saw you.”

  A glimmer of sympathy crossed his face. “I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me. And you have no idea why those two men were after you?”

  “None at all. What could I possibly have that they would want?”

  “It’s not what you have,” he said. “Most likely, it’s who you are.”

  “And who am I?”

  He scrutinized me. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  I smiled faintly. “When you discover that information, I would be very grateful if you shared it with me.”

  For a moment his eyes lingered on my face and the corner of his mouth curled up. It was an almost imperceptible micro expression but nonetheless, I’d seen it.

  He was more than curious. He looked intrigued.

  There would now be many, many questions.

  Flick leaned forward again, his tone professional and demanding. “How did you manage to convince people to help you? And how did you know they would?”

  “It seems that citizens in New Dublin are eager to aid others who are in distress.”

  He smirked. “I would imagine the men helped you without much prompting.”

  “Why would they do that?” I asked innocently.

  “Never mind. And you claim you have no memory before waking up on the NARPA base?”

  “I don’t claim it. That is a fact.”

  He stood up abruptly and paced. “Is there anything familiar about New Dublin?”

  “No, nothing. Whatever memory I have is simply old, learned behavior. I seem to possess an understanding of basic social customs and communication skills, as well as being able to read. Beyond that? I am… improvising.”

  That, and running strictly on paranoia and supposition.

  His pacing ceased and he sat down again. One hand lingered at his lower lip, tugging it between thumb and finger. “So when I said your name back at the archives, it meant nothing to you.”

  “I didn’t know that was my name if that is what you mean.”

  The silence that followed felt important. Obviously, he needed to make a decision, and it was based on instinct more than intellect if his hesitation was any indication.

  His eyes drifted to the floor and he grimaced.

  He seemed to be trying to decide if he would take me to the authorities or keep me under his supervision.

  “Do you live here?” I asked.

  He glanced up. “Sometimes. It’s sort of a refuge from my work.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Pride/appreciation.

  “Thank you, Flick.”

  He tilted his head back. “Why are you thanking me?”

  I widened my eyes and softened my voice. “If you hadn’t been there, who knows where those two men would have taken me.”

  He shrugged confidently. “It wouldn’t have made any difference where they took you. I still would have found you.”

  “What if they come looking for me again?”

  His mouth twitched down fractionally. “I don’t think either one of them will be coming after you anytime soon.”

  “I hope you are correct,” I replied softly.

  Flick’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. “How do you feel right now?”

  I felt exhausted. “Grateful.”

  “I meant physically, but all right. What are you feeling grateful for?”

  I exhaled, imitating relief. “That you came along when you did. You probably saved my life.”

  He shook his head with dismay. “You had to have been trying to come up with something better than hiding in the archives for the rest of your life. What was your plan?”

  “I intended to blend in, find a safe place and try to determine what has happened to me. It was as far as I’d gotten by way of developing a plan.”

  “Someone is helping you, Keeley. Did you know that?”

  I nodded. “It seems likely. Otherwise, how would I have managed to get as far as I have?”

  “It’s not our friend Skee,” he said. “The person helping you is incredibly well resourced. They have enough
access to hinder me, and that’s something remarkable. I think it’s another Grey.”

  “How did you manage to locate me with everything working against you?”

  He rolled one shoulder casually. “I’m good at my job.”

  Yes, he was.

  Since escape wasn’t a current option, ingratiating myself would have to suffice.

  I wanted him to believe I was special. Worth holding on to.

  Worth defying authority for.

  And if not for my benefit, then for his. After all, I was probably the most interesting mystery he had run across in quite some time. What would occur if I was taken away from him and put into the system? He might not ever find the answers to all of his questions.

  He needed to be made aware of that.

  “If those two men had managed to deliver me,” I said dismally, “who knows where I would be by now. What could they possibly want from me?”

  Flick’s left hand clenched into a fist. It was an unconscious gesture that he wasn’t even aware of.

  I took it as a positive sign, but I was rapidly running out of time. The sun had to have set almost two hours ago. I needed to convince him that turning me in was a mistake before I blacked out or there was no telling where I would wake up.

  If I would wake up.

  “I don’t even know where to begin,” I said. “What happened to me? Where did I come from? And what do I do if someone else even worse than those two men is still searching for me?”

  His eyes drifted back to the floor and his grimace was suddenly replaced with resolute/defiant.

  He had just made his decision about what to do.

  Although I was aware he was still not wholly convinced my story was true, he didn’t doubt that something very strange had happened to me.

  More to the point, he wanted very much to know what it was.

  He focused on my face intently. “I think you should stay here. At least until I’ve managed to figure out how you lost your memory.”

  “Thank you, Flick.”

  He nodded once, decisively. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  I took a deep breath. “There is something else you need to know about me.”

  He sat forward in the chair. “It sounds important.”

  “Two hours after sunset each night I fall asleep.”

  He inclined his head from side to side. “Odd, but why do you think that’s significant?”

  “Because it happens precisely two hours after sunset, and it isn’t normal sleep. More like an involuntary coma.”

  Flick stood up abruptly and came to the side of the bed. “How do you know it’s like a coma?”

  “I wake up in the same position. I do not move the entire night.”

  He peered down at my face and lifted a hand to my forehead, but paused and offered a reassuring smile. “I’m going to touch you. Don’t be alarmed, I’m looking at your eyes.”

  “Why would I be alarmed?”

  “I didn’t want you to be frightened and try to fight me off,” he explained.

  “Be assured, fighting you is not something I would ever do.”

  Flick placed a palm on my forehead and used his thumb to pull up my eyelids, first one, then the other, and inspected my eyes. “How do you feel, physically?”

  “Fatigued. Dehydrated.”

  He frowned slightly “Your eyes are bloodshot and your skin is pale and blotchy. You look a bit like a diver with decompression sickness.”

  “After the sleep comes over me, it lasts at least twelve hours.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “And it happens quickly.”

  He touched my neck with two fingers, holding them there for a few seconds, presumably counting my pulse rate. “A healthy person usually recovers from getting smoked after about four or five hours. You came out of it faster, but you look worse than you should. It’s not something I’ve ever seen before.”

  He stood up straight, evaluating my condition. Then he allowed his face to show the first unguarded emotion I’d seen. Concerned/puzzled.

  The mystery of my past was simply an annoyance to me, but it was a great mind game to him. As long as he remained intrigued I would be relatively safe.

  Relatively.

  “You need to eat something,” he said abruptly.

  He strode away and I collapsed on the bed to consider my situation.

  Rummaging sounds from the kitchen area told me he was preparing food, and that was very reassuring.

  I tried to moderate the hope that I would be safe until morning, but his demeanor was positively buoyant, and I had to remind myself to maintain my vigilance.

  Either I had managed to convince Flick to keep me under his supervision, or I hadn’t. It was possible he would have second thoughts while I was in my blackout state and turn me in. Only morning would provide the answer.

  Crushing fatigue washed over me and I found my eyelids drooping.

  It was happening again.

  There was nothing more I could do. My time was up.

  I had a vague notion of Flick trying to wake me up to give me food, but it was a futile attempt. The last thing I recall was drinking a few gulps of some foul-tasting liquid and managing to swallow before everything went dark.

  ∆

  When I woke again the sun was up, the jungle around the bedroom hummed with bird life, and Flick was sleeping at the foot of the swinging bed, sprawled in the chair with one arm dangling to the floor.

  I stirred myself to a sitting position, and he was awake and on his feet instantly.

  “How do you feel?”

  I took a physical inventory. “Fine.”

  He stood beside the bed and held out one hand. “Can you stand?”

  My feet swung to the floor and I tested my reflexes. “Everything seems to be in working order.”

  His tone changed from strained to relieved. “After you went under last night you wouldn’t wake up, even if I shook you. I thought you might stay that way forever.”

  “That would be difficult to explain in a written report.”

  He stared at me. “Did you just make a joke?”

  “Not a very good one.”

  He had shaved and showered sometime during the night and looked reasonably rested in spite of his sleeping accommodations.

  I found it interesting that he had chosen to sleep in the chair instead of the bed. I certainly wouldn’t have noticed if he had sprawled beside me all night, and he had to have known that, but he’d chosen not to intrude on my space.

  He gestured to a small table at his knee. “There is water here, and I suggest you drink it all. I’ve got some things to do outside but I’ll be close by if you need help.”

  “Flick, you have already helped me.”

  He smiled sympathetically and left me to drag myself out of the bed, pointing to the left as he headed toward the front door. “The bathroom is that way.”

  The heavy blue ceramic mug he’d left for me was filled with cool, crisp water and I drank it all, as instructed. It tasted wonderful.

  The bathroom had no door, which explained why he had gone outside. The toilet was partially enclosed by a half-wall, but the shower, constructed of dark green slate, was mostly open to the outdoors and to the rest of the house.

  This place had not been constructed with guests in mind.

  Looking at the spare collection of grooming products told me that Flick never brought anyone here, particularly female company.

  I managed to shower, rinse my clothing and finger-comb my hair. I located and used mouth disinfectant, and stumbled on a tin containing a buttery lotion that soothed my dry lips.

  My hands functioned normally, my legs carried me with no apparent aftereffects of my recent ‘smoking,’ and my head was clear.

  What now?

  The plan of escape I’d formulated the day before was now delayed considerably. The trouble was, there was no backup plan.

  My dress was still damp when I put it back on but the humid air woul
d have caused that anyway. My body heat would dry the material eventually.

  When I emerged from the bathroom, Flick came back inside with a spray of flowers clutched in his fist. He crammed the red blossoms into a glass on a small wooden table in the food prep area and splashed a bit of water over them. A curious gesture that I took note of.

  He pulled out a heavy wooden chair. “Now, sit. Eat something.”

  I eased into the carved chair and studied the food. Clearly some sort of cooked egg, heavy bread smeared with brownish goo, and beside it a plate of various fruits coated with what smelled like lime and honey.

  He noticed me eyeing the brown paste warily.

  “It’s apple butter. Try it.”

  I slowly sampled the goo and was surprisingly satisfied. “I like it.”

  He dropped into one of the chairs beside me. “It’s got cinnamon in it. Gives it punch.”

  Had he created this concoction himself?

  I surveyed the cabin, and Flick’s body language as he devoured his food, and thought hard about the implications of my current location.

  He was confident and excited, but also focused and alert.

  “This structure is very unusual,” I commented casually.

  “I built it from scrap wood instead of steelfoam. I salvaged glass windows, and used nails, not graphene pins.”

  “Impressive.”

  He peered at me. “You look almost normal again.”

  I swallowed and made a show of fiddling with my utensil to establish that I felt worried. “Flick, what happens now?”

  His restrained expression returned, and he leaned back to stare at some distant point over my shoulder.

  I ate while he thought about what to say. His face didn’t change during his deliberation, but his body language communicated ample information.

  The fingers on his left hand rhythmically tapped up and down in quick succession. An obvious movement adaptor. He was experiencing an uncomfortable conflict and this was his method of compensation.

  “The first thing we need to do is determine who you are and why you seem to be so popular with kidnappers,” he said. “There is no way I can take you to a Grey facility and have you palm our screenboard because they would most likely detain you whether I am with you or not. Then it would be out of my hands.”

  I got the impression that was not his preference.