The Minus Faction, Episode One: Breakout

by Rick Wayne

  Ayn didn't stop. "I'm not board-certified in anything. I didn't go to Berkeley." She nodded to Amarta's degrees on the wall of the office. "I just went to some plain ol' state college down South. But I read something recently. Maybe you can tell me if it's true."

  Dr. Zabora waited.

  "Patients engaging in masochistic behavior are often punishing themselves for something. Is that right?"

  "It's not that straightforward."

  "But it is a possibility."

  Amarta didn't answer.

  "Doctor, whether you are or not, a lot of very smart people are bothered that Captain Regent refuses to state why he went AWOL. Or who his captors were."

  Dr. Zabora looked down at her desk and waited for Ayn to finish her sales pitch.

  "You probably don't know this, but he was found dragging himself, one-armed, through a desert two hundred miles from his last known location. Barely alive."

  Amarta looked up. "I'm guessing that was in a part of the world we're not supposed to be in."

  Ayn ignored the quip. "And no one has any idea why a highly decorated soldier with an impeccable service record suddenly walked off the reservation. We don't know where he was or who took him or why they let him go."

  Amarta snorted. "Or what he told them while he was gone."

  Ayn paused. "That, too."

  Dr. Zabora took a deep breath and exhaled. John's service record had more black line than text. It was obvious he had seen things, secret things, embarrassing things. The cynic in Amarta wondered if that's why they let him come home. They needed him to relax, get comfortable, so they could uncover what he revealed. And to whom.

  Otherwise they would have just eliminated him.

  And now the powers-that-be wanted Amarta to declare him a risk to himself and hold him at the hospital. They would need a judge's ruling to keep him more than seventy-two hours, but she guessed that would be plenty of time for a well-connected agency to find one.

  They didn't care about John, she knew, and they were holding Derek Wilkins over her head, giving her an "excuse." Better to be safe, right? Better not to risk another soldier with PTSD snapping and taking a service sidearm to his family. And then himself. No one would contest her decision.

  Amarta knew this was just the first round. If she refused, she'd find her career threatened. And after that . . .

  Ayn could see the conflict on Dr. Zabora's face. She stood. "I'm going to interview the staff. But I'll be around. Do let me know what you decide. Just don't take too long."

  Dr. Zabora looked up at the dark woman. Ayn wasn't going to leave until Amarta did what they wanted. Amarta watched as the spy stepped over the pile of spilled files and walked out the door. She took another deep breath.

  Poor John. After everything he'd been through, everything he'd done to survive, to escape, to get home, it still wasn't over.

  Now his own country was after him.

  T Minus: 051 Days 19 Hours 51 Minutes 04 Seconds

  "Of all the tricks you've pulled, this has got to be the best." Dr. Zabora closed the door to Regent's room with a soft click. The TV was on mute. Jittery, hand-recorded footage of the Chinese nuclear disaster flashed across the screen as sports scores scrolled across the bottom. Music was playing from a small stereo near the sink. It was an old song. "Toto? Really?"

  John was in bed. "Are you suggesting a black man can't enjoy the soft hits of the '80s?"

  Amarta sat down opposite her patient. "So how did you do it?"

  "Do what?" John grabbed the tiny remote near the bed and turned the stereo off just as "I'll Be Over You" began.

  "Fine, don't tell me." Amarta studied the captain's face. He looked like he was in so much pain. So uncomfortable. Hence the multiple distractions, she realized. "There's a woman here."

  Regent put the remote on a side table. His chair faced the bed with open arms as if reaching out to hug him. He looked at it. "Oh?"

  "Worried?"

  "It was only a matter of time. What agency?"

  "She didn't say. Does it matter?"

  "Above a certain level, not really. She threaten you?"

  Dr. Zabora nodded. "Not in so many words, but . . ." She sat back and crossed her legs.

  "You should give her what she wants."

  "She wants me to keep you here until they can get before a judge and have you committed."

  "Then do it."

  "John!"

  "I'm serious, Doc. Don't fuck around with these people. There's not a noble way out. Don't try to be a hero."

  "I'm seriously considering it." Amarta's face was flat. She waited for her words to sink in.

  John didn't flinch.

  "Have you heard of Sergeant Wilkins?"

  Regent nodded. News like that spreads.

  "I didn't think he was a threat either. But I'm quite willing to go out on a limb for you, Captain. All I need is a little someth--"

  "The less you know, the better."

  "Yes." Amarta sighed. "You've said that. For months." John had warned her from the beginning that he might be under surveillance—that someone else might be listening to their sessions, reading her notes and electronic communications. The latter at least seemed to be true. "I wish we could keep this up. I'd like to be able to say I got you to open up, to have that feather in my cap, but here the world's come knocking. We're out of time, Captain. Whether I like it or not, whether it's fair or not, I have to make a tough call."

  "I already made it. Give the woman what she wants. I'll call my pops and tell him to stay home."

  "They're going to commit you."

  John nodded.

  "As a ward of the state, despite whatever it says on paper, effectively you'll have no legal rights."

  John nodded again.

  "I'm offering to help you. You do understand that, right?"

  "There's nothing I can tell you that doesn't put you at risk."

  Amarta sat forward. "Now who's being noble? You don't get to make that choice for me."

  "You think I don't want to talk about it?" Regent stayed calm. "You think I'm not sitting here squirming with a big lump of truth in the back of my throat? They have to believe that you know nothing. If they think you know something—anything—they'll assume you know more. And then they'll get their hooks into you.

  "Why do you think they rushed me back? They could've just put a bullet in my brain and buried me in a part of the world no one ever woulda looked. But instead I got a flight home and first-class medical treatment courtesy of Uncle Sam." He motioned to Dr. Zabora. He meant it as a compliment. "They want to know what they don't know. Right now that's my only protection. I'm not being coy, Doc. Or noble. I'm just doing the best I can with the hand I've been dealt." There was never much he could do from the arms of his electric chair. He could only run as fast as it could carry him.

  Amarta saw John's shriveled hand twitch as if stung or stabbed. She tried not to think about how much he was hurting. If she did, she would cry. "There has to be something we can do. There's a way. That's what you told me. The Special Forces mantra or whatever. If you commit to the objective over everything else, then there's always a way. Your words."

  "I know what I said."

  "If I file that report, they'll be able to use it in any court proceeding. Ever. It will follow you around for the rest of your life, like a scarlet letter tattooed on your forehead. 'Captain Regent is dangerous.' But if I don't say that, if I say you're just fine, then they have to get someone else to say it, and that gets you out of here and away from them, gives you time to fight. You'll have to get a lawyer, but--"

  "No lawyers."

  "Jesus, Captain!" Dr. Zabora clenched her fists and told herself to calm down. "You know, after everything, it would be so easy to just let go and turn into a cynical bitch, put in my time and collect a government pension. I think I was halfway there." Amarta looked at the TV hanging in the corner. Smoke billowed in huge plumes from the center of a ravaged city. "Believe it or not Captain, you are not my m
ost pressing problem. I did not come in on a Sunday to process your discharge request. I came in because Gabriel Gonzales called this morning and asked to be readmitted, and if not for the queen bitch of hell breaking into my office, I would be talking to him instead of you."

  "That's good news."

  Amarta shrugged. "He was gone. Out the door. Almost certainly in a free fall to suicide. Something brought him back."

  John gave a single nod. He looked lost in thought.

  "So how did you do it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Dr. Zabora dropped her head. She sighed. The man wasn't going to budge.

  "I got a headache, Doc." Regent squinted in the light from the windows. "Can we take a walk?"

  Amarta stood and walked to the end of the bed. John was dodging, but he wasn't lying. He looked miserable. He was always hiding his pain, sweeping it under the burned and twisted mask of his face. "Okay."

  Regent grabbed the bar and dragged himself to the edge of the bed. Sheets and blankets dropped to the floor. He leaned and slid into the waiting arms of his chair. It shook and creaked as if giving squeals of joy. John straightened his legs, strapped himself down, and threw the morphine drip to the floor. He wiggled the joystick fixed to the armrest near his right hand, his good hand. The electrical motor clicked and whined as the soldier moved toward the door. "What did he say?"

  "Who?"

  The captain maneuvered down the hall, to the elevator, and pushed the 'UP' button.

  "Gabe. What did he say about coming back?"

  The door dinged open and John moved in first. The metal walls of the car were polished. It smelled like new carpet. John spun his chair in a little arc and pushed the button for the ninth floor.

  Amarta had barely an inch on the soldier in the chair. She felt so short next to him. Short and fat. She tugged her white coat straight. "I haven't spoken to him. I just got the message. When I called back, I got his voice mail. I told him that I would be in today and he could come whenever he wanted."

  John nodded. It was a good sign.

  The elevator dinged again and John rolled down a bright hall on the ninth floor of the new, high tech hospital. He pushed open a heavy, polished wood door. Amarta looked at the sign on the wall.

  PROSTHETICS.

  She stepped into the room as the lights flickered on. There were no windows. The walls were beveled concrete slabs. "Why are we here?"

  Rows of hollow plastic limbs in a diverse selection of skin tones hung from hooks and rested on racks. A bank of dark computer equipment ran through the middle of the room. Large flat screens were mounted on brackets that hung from the ceiling.

  "No one works here on Sundays." John pointed. "Stand in that corner. As close to the wall as you can."

  Amarta stepped forward and disturbed a row of dangling cybernetic feet. It was creepy. She put her nose to the corner. The wall was cold. "Why do I feel like a dunce?"

  "You can turn around."

  Dr. Zabora complied in shuffling steps, keeping as close to the wall as possible.

  "We're near the roof at the dead center of the building. The main power cabling for the whole complex runs behind those walls. In that corner, you're surrounded by enough concrete and enough magnetic discharge that anyone listening will get nothing but static."

  Amarta crossed her arms and leaned against the two walls meeting at her back. John was several feet in front of her. "What about you?"

  Regent smiled. "I'm clean, Doc. Trust me."

  "You know, if this were anyone else, anyone else at all, I would take this as evidence of severe paranoid delusion."

  "Thinking they are out to get you is a lot different than just assuming they might be."

  Amarta looked at the dangling limbs. Loose electrodes coiled from small openings like frayed nerves. Some were wrapped in plastic. "That makes entirely too much sense for where I'm standing."

  "You hear about the coma patient with the bullet in his leg?"

  Amarta turned back to John. "Did they have something to do with that."

  John shook his head. "Not them."

  "Are you saying you had something to do with that?"

  Regent waited a moment to judge the doctor's reaction.

  "John?"

  "The place where I was held . . . I wasn't the only prisoner. Most people here think the world is full of countries with clearly defined borders, and inside those borders everyone is pretty much the same: Chinese, Indians, Russians. But there are parts of the world that are at least as diverse as your average American street corner, places where folks come from all over to work in mines or run pipelines. Arab money. Or Chinese. Western brokers taking a cut. Big time power plays planned by spies and politicians on kickback.

  "Assuming you can speak anything but English, a black man doesn't stand out there. The guys who took me didn't know who I was. They just knew I was foreign. A mark."

  "Mark?"

  John nodded. "For ransom. It's a business. Organized crime. Shit, in that part of the world, I'm not even sure it's a crime. It's just business. Energy companies pay private security firms to keep the costs down, but it's just assumed some of their people will get took. If they have the budget that quarter, they pay. If not . . ." John shrugged. "These companies hire foreign talent. They ship them in, non-Westerners. If a German or an American gets kidnapped, it's bad headlines. So that's no good. And if you hire the locals, odds are some of them will have connections to a warlord and shit will get stolen. Or worse. So companies ship workers in. Damn fools get recruited from India or Nigeria or wherever. Dreams of big money. Most have families back home. Just poor folks trying to do the best they can."

  Amarta was silent and still. John hadn't said this much ever.

  "I was held in a big pit in the ground, hidden under a concrete building. Most of the cells were just 'leased.' Not too many long-term residents. Like with any inventory, the money is in the turns, right? Guys would either get ransomed or killed. But they didn't know who would pay for my lodging, so staying alive meant convincing them I had value, but not in a way that gave anything away."

  "I imagine that wasn't easy."

  "I was highly motivated. After a week or so I got moved to one of the special cells, deeper down. Just a big dug-out room. Cheap fluorescent lights overhead. Smell of dirt and the shit and piss from the buckets in the corner. There was an old woman there. Dirty, tattered robes. Looked like she was Tibetan maybe. Hard to tell. She'd been there awhile, that's for sure."

  "How could you tell?"

  "Her hair and fingernails. I ain't ever seen anything like that before. She was their medic, I think. Every now and then they'd bring someone down and she'd patch them up. She did everything with that kind of Buddhist serenity. She never argued, never tried to escape. Some of those guys over there, they don't think much about keeping a woman locked up. She just accepted it, like that was her life and she was going to live it on her terms."

  John looked Dr. Zabora right in the eyes. "When I wouldn't give them what they wanted, the torture started."

  Amarta took a long, slow, deep breath. She had asked for this.

  "I mean, they had hit me, dunked me in water, stuff like that. But now it was a different crew. I'd dangled enough out there to make them think I was valuable, probably more than I should have because they got serious. Real serious." John looked down at his left hand, shriveled and clenched. "I couldn't take it. I would have told them anything."

  "I think that's completely understandable, Captain."

  "It wasn't the pain. Well, that too, I guess. I was scared. Afraid of letting everyone down. My unit. My country. My family. But . . . I knew I couldn't take it. It was only a matter of time."

  Amarta frowned.

  "One time they pulled back the skin from my scrotum. They hooked it up to a generator. I almost spilled it all right then. It was the smell more than anything. And the fear that I'd never . . . You know."

  Dr. Zabora choked on a knot in her throat. She felt a
tear gather in one eye. She was glad she had folded her arms earlier. It hid her shaking hands. She felt she needed to acknowledge such a personal admission. "I see. I--I can't imagine."

  "I think the old woman saw it in my eyes, the fear. She knew a little Farsi and so did I. She started to teach."

  "Teach?" Amarta kept swallowing the lump in her throat, but it wouldn't budge.

  "A way to escape the pain. Some ancient, ancient shit, Doc. I didn't listen right away. Not really. I suppose no one wants to believe at first. But desperation—real desperation, the kind folks here don't ever have to experience—it drives you to do funny things." John snorted.

  Amarta waited.

  "I figured out how she could accept it. They had her body all right, but she was a pacifist and a master and her mind . . . Her mind could go anywhere. She taught me. She taught me how to leave my body." Regent looked his doctor in the eye again. "To project my consciousness."

  He was serious. John was completely, utterly serious.

  "The old woman can go anywhere, but I'm not that good. I still need a body to hold onto. It's easier if they're unconscious. Otherwise you gotta force your way in. I never quite got the hang of that."

  Dr. Zabora's thoughts mutinied. They surrendered completely and her mouth fell open. She blinked. After a moment, she gathered the shattered pieces and scoffed. "John--"

  But the soldier knew what she was going to say. "You're a scientist, Doc. You have two possible explanations here. You tell me what's more likely: that a coma patient woke up and didn't ask for a glass of water or anything, that he somehow knew how to rig his monitors so he wouldn't be missed, that he snuck out of the hospital without being seen and went to a drug house to convince them to stop selling pills to a fellow patient he had never met--"

  "Gabriel . . ." Amarta whispered.

  "Or that an old monk taught a man in pain a secret older than civilization, a way to hang on to the last shred of his dignity."

  Dr. Zabora put her hand to her mouth.

  "I'd come back from hitching and it would hurt—bad—from whatever they did. But nothing like having to live through it. The worst part was the fear—that I'd come back and find they'd cut off my dick or one of my hands or something." John chuckled.