by John Nelson
Sherry had already taken up with somebody else, so our parting was rather amiable and the release quickly signed and notarized. I moved my stuff to a storage facility and stayed on at the midtown hotel for now. They had given me quite a nice bonus for the last assignment, which made all of this possible. Gene and company were glad to have me back. They were increasingly focused on anti-government activity and since these were mostly bornies, my extended experience in their community was considered a big plus.
If they only knew that it was more than just my recognizance time there but the reorientation of my whole psyche, it would surprise them. What surprised me was that my heightened intuition made this kind of intelligence work even easier, while my expansive feelings made the harsher side of people’s detainment harder to take. The other downside was that I did have trouble assimilating the vast amounts of information that my neural processor had previously handled without a problem. This was noted, but attributed to my hangover from this last extended assignment.
Emma had not been placed on my no-contact list. I called but could never reach her, so I slipped away one weekend to visit her. However, her cabin was empty, with no signs of any recent habitation. I tried to contact Paula Mansfield, but she had moved with no forwarding address. This was all getting rather suspicious. I wondered what was really going on behind the scenes. I would soon find out. One afternoon a few weeks later, while walking back to the hotel after work, I was picked up on the street by some black ops unit or some such detail, whether national or foreign, and hustled away in a van. I was drugged, but between treatments saw that I was being flown a long distance, probably out of country, to some detention center on a foreign soil, where the amenities wouldn’t be as cushy as the Bradbury Institute’s.
Chapter Nineteen
56.
Since I had status in our society and legal inquiries had been made of my disposition, the government or Klaus and company couldn’t just make me disappear. They would have to insert me back into my life and job, then snatch me and blame it on antigovernment forces getting back at me for my undercover work, or even attribute my kidnapping to foreign or black market interests, given that I was largely responsible for the upgrades of the new X5 neural processor. As with computer brands and portables, these processors were sold worldwide and the competition was fierce. I had no doubt that it was the government who snatched me, and this was clearly evident when I reached my destination and was transported by a jeep through the jungle, my hands bound and with a hood over my head, to a black ops detention center in what appeared to be Central American.
While my drivers and guards were mostly local Spanish-speaking hires, this was definitely a US operation, made more evident when we arrived and I was unshackled, my hood removed, and escorted across the common area to an administrative building. After a bathroom break, I was taken to the mess hall where there were lots of military grunts, special ops soldiers and a few scientist types. I was handed over to my handler, who was in his late forties, graying temples, with the sharp eyes of an analyst but also somewhat deadened, by his black ops work I would assume.
He stuck out his hand. “Reynard. Sorry for the rough treatment, but they wanted this handled quickly and seamlessly.
I shook the guy’s hand. “And who are they?”
“Call me Clayton.”
“And ‘they’ are?” I asked again.
He smiled and took me over to the buffet counter. “We’ll get to that, but it’s dinner time and once they close, they’re closed.”
We stood in line with metal trays and chose from a food selection that was half Mexican and half American. I was hungry and loaded up on the Mexican food. I had got used to this diet in the Southwest, but it was harder to maintain at the Institute. My selection was noted. We walked to the far end of the mess and took a table with a window view of the jungle.
We ate in silence for a while. Finally I stared across the table at him. “Look, Reynard, the less you know about any of this, the easier it will be for you to get out of here and back to some kind of normal life.”
“But not my previous life?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders; apparently my dispensation was above his pay grade, or so he pretended.
“Well, can you tell me why I’m here?”
“That I can do. The government apparently felt that your previous interrogation was less than … truthful, and since they couldn’t use chemical coercion … or other means at the Bradbury Institute, they’ve sent you to us, since we don’t exist.”
“And don’t follow the Geneva Convention.”
“Well, since you’re not an enemy combatant, but a US operative of sorts, it doesn’t apply, not that we would give a damn.”
Since it was obvious that I wasn’t going to get any info from this guy, I finished my meal in silence. Afterward Clayton and an armed guard walked me to my cell: a twelve-by-twelve room with a small window, no doubt made of hard plastic and unbreakable, a decent-looking bed, a toilet, and natural spectrum lighting, which was easier on the eyes. I soon realized that the lights stayed on 24/7 for surveillance purposes, explaining the low lighting. This meant no formal meditations, but then I was prepared for that at the Institute, where I learned to conduct my quiet-mind practice disguised as sleep. I had no doubt that they had long-range brain-wave scanners to detect if I was truly sleeping, but I figured I could get around them.
I was exhausted and slept well that first night, despite the lights. In the morning, the door opened and I was passed a tray of food and a change of clothing—army fatigues in my size. The guard told me I could change in the shower room. So I ate, and was taken down the hall, where the guard waited inside while I showered and shaved and put on my fatigues. The whole time I focused on altering my state of awareness or dissociating myself from my mental mechanism, or in my case my neocortex, since I didn’t have a neural processor. I figured this was the only way I could lie without detection, to whatever level of electronic monitoring or chemical coercion they would use.
I was taken to an interrogation room which was military standard, unlike the Bradbury Institute’s private sector version. I sat down on a metal chair at a square metal table. Clayton came in and sat down across from me, opened up his portable, and read through a few pages before looking up at me.
“Alan, let’s do this the easy way. You know we can subject you to chemical coercion, and as an operative you’ve seen how effective that can be. So, why go there? Why not just truthfully answer my questions, letting us use standard long-range scanners to check their veracity.”
“Fine with me.”
Clayton nodded his head. He then asked me a series of standard questions about myself, like my name and my mother’s name, where I had lived with my ex-wife, Sherry, to establish a level. He rather quickly moved to the gist of the matter. “You did alpha testing on the X2 neural processor?”
“Yes.”
“To the best of your knowledge, did your process, which you described to scientists at the Bradbury Institute, alter it in ways indiscernible to their brain scans and neural mapping?”
“No … but the processing isn’t totally under my control.”
“How so?” he asked.
“The process involves me sensing and then integrating mostly negative feelings, which relieves a lot of tension, but how it affects neural processors is rather difficult for me to assess.”
Clayton nodded his head. “As you know, your whole statement can be subjected to truth analysis and I’m detecting that this was … generally truthful.” He paused and smiled at me. “So, let me rephrase the question. By any means, this process or others, was your neural processor affected in ways that were indiscernible to their brain scientists?”
Since I couldn’t close my eyes, I had to shift my consciousness while fully aware of the outside world. “No.”
Clayton studied the readout and then looked up at me. “Well, that response is … more questionable.”
“Well, to re
iterate, the process isn’t totally under my control, but to the best of my knowledge, it wasn’t altered in such ways, but could have been.”
Clayton stared at his screen. “Okay, I can see that I need a little more background in order to properly conduct this interrogation, which is our fault, not yours.” He paused, all the while staring at me. “But, since it appears that you’re cooperating, we’ll loosen our restrictions and allow you some yard time, as they call it.”
I thanked him, and a guard escorted me out to the exercise yard that the soldiers generally used for sports activities, like soccer and baseball. I walked around the field for about an hour and then I was returned to my cell. A vid screen had been installed and some video entertainment options were available. This included an online library, and I was able to call up the Hindu Upanishads and read from it. After a while, I pretended to take a nap, but went into an altered state and pulled in energy and had another out-of-body experience. What I detected, as I viewed the compound from above, were a series of unmarked graves in a field to the rear of the overall jungle clearing, and I knew that this was where they would ‘dispose’ of me, but I sensed, if not totally understood, that there was another option.
57.
The next morning, after my shower and change of clothing, I was taken to the clinic, strapped into a chair, and given a shot of what I assumed was an advance chemical truth serum. Taking this on an empty stomach made it quick reacting. I didn’t have much time before it started to affect me and alter my state of mind. I needed to detach my consciousness from my body, so I wouldn’t be affected, or less so. I discovered this was much easier not having to ‘fiddle’ with a neural processor and its programming. By the time I arrived at the interrogation room, my mind and physical reaction time was definitely affected, if not my consciousness.
Clayton was waiting for me this time. I was strapped into a chair across from him. A doctor came in, ran a few physical tests, did a light-in-the-eye examination and told my interrogator that the chemical serum was in effect.
“Sorry, but when we ran yesterday’s interrogation by …” He paused and looked at his portable. “ … Dr. Klaus, he said you weren’t being truthful and authorized our use of chemical interrogation.”
“How nice of him.”
My glib response took him aback, and he glanced over his shoulder at the one-way mirror and to his superiors. He turned back to me but apparently didn’t receive any further feedback from them.
“Okay, Reynard. Let me ask you again. Was your X2 neural processor affected by any means and in ways that were indiscernible to the Bradbury Institute’s brain scientists?”
I stared back at him, my eyes no doubt glazed over, but if not ‘clear-minded,’ I was definitely ‘clear.’
“Would you like me to repeat the question?”
“No.”
Clayton glared at me. “‘No’ to repeating the question or ‘no’ as your answer?”
“No and no.”
He looked down at his screen, then up at me again. “Alan, how old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
He nodded his head. Apparently, to the best of his knowledge, the truth serum was working.
“Another question. Did you and Maria Fria conspire to undermine your mission objective?”
I realized that they were looking for an excuse to kill me, and I sensed that was part of some larger scheme for me to cooperate and give them what they wanted, and so I did. “No. But, her healing affected me and changed my position in regard to it.”
“How.”
“I figured that she wasn’t the real objective, but that I was being set up to test how her energy affected the R11 and X2 neural processors.”
“What was your response to that knowledge?”
“It pissed me off,” I said.
“And if you could have reprogrammed it, would you?”
“Yes.”
“While you were there, did you come into contact with Su Ling?”
“Yes.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“She wanted me to help them free Emma from FBI custody, but I thought it was too dangerous and she might get killed in the escape.”
“But otherwise you might have cooperated?”
“Yes.”
Clayton now waited for a long moment; he then read his screen and smiled. “Well, Dr. Klaus is satisfied that you’ve been truthful about the X2, but you’ve also admitted to treason against your country, punishable by death, the execution to be carried out summarily.”
“You know I didn’t eat breakfast yet, don’t I get one last meal?”
“A real wise guy. I think I’ll carry this order out myself.”
He had the doctor remove my subdural tracking device. I guess they weren’t going to follow me into the afterlife.
Two strong-armed guards stepped into the room, unstrapped me from the chair, and bound my hands behind me. We followed Clayton out of the room, down the hall, and into the exercise yard. There, two grunts were waiting for us with shovels. We crossed the field to the graveyard I had detected last night. I thought I might have some more time, but the grave had already been dug, and they were just there to fill it back up over my dead body.
Clayton pulled out a revolver. “Any last words, traitor?”
It was amazing but I didn’t feel any fear. I surrendered to my fate, be it my death at their hands or my more improbable rescue. I was looking him in the eyes as he raised his revolver. I heard a shot ring out and saw blood trickling down from his forehead as he fell over. Two more shots killed the gravediggers and then a rebel guerilla troop stepped out of the forest, put a cloth hood over my head, and pulled me back into the forest. They dragged me for a hundred yards or so, where I was strapped into the backseat of a small jeep-like vehicle. Somebody ran an electronic scanner over my body, to detect any implanted bugs, but I was now clean. We drove off over a rough road at high speed.
I could hear gunshots being fired at us, and I figured we didn’t have long before a drone would be sent in our direction and my rescue, if that was what this was, would be all for naught. But then I felt long palm fronds slapping my face, and I figured we were deep in the jungle and the tree coverage was protecting us. What I later learned was that an anti-thermal cover was stretched across the top of the jeep and halfway down its sides, to prevent drones from locking into our thermal signatures.
We had driven for about three hours when we stopped and I was pulled from the jeep. They removed my hood and unfastened my hands and gave me a canteen of water. I gulped it down. The leader, a tough-looking Indian with a scar down his right cheek, told me, “Okay hombre, we walk from here. Don’t try escape.”
I figured that they were going to ransom me off to the government, or some foreign entity interested in my work on the new X5 processor. Either prospect was not to my liking, but as they say, the alternative was even less appealing. We walked through the jungle for about four hours. It was almost dark when we came to a large compound with high, adobe walls. There was a guard post at each corner. Scarface yelled something to the nearest guard and the huge, metal, swinging door partially opened to allow us to slide through before it was closed shut.
I was bleary-eyed by now, hung over from the drug treatment, and exhausted by the long trek. I saw a woman run down the steps of a large cottage and race toward me. Only when she was within a few feet did I recognize Emma, in her army fatigue pants and white T-shirt, as she jumped into my arms and nearly knocked me over.
“Oh my God, you made it.”
After a long embrace and a big kiss, she pulled back, grabbed my arm, and helped me walk over to the cottage. Maria stepped out onto the porch as we walked up the steps. I was really depleted by now, but she motioned me forward and gave me a big hug, and I could just feel her energy coursing through my body and reviving me.
After she released me, I started to say something but she shook her head and the two of them walked me into the cottage and over to
a long table set for dinner. I was now restored enough to realize that I needed a shower badly before any social engagement.
“We’re informal here, Alan. You can clean up later. Let’s eat,” Maria said.
I sat down as scarface and his men joined us at the table, while the women, no doubt their wives and daughters, brought out loads of food. I just looked at the spread in amazement.
“Best if you start slow, Alan,” Emma said, squeezing my hand.
I followed her advice and slowly added food to my plate and ate it, savoring the delicious vegetable dishes. After a while I was functioning well enough to look across the table at scarface. “Thanks for rescuing me.” He nodded his head. “What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
He bowed his head and with an elaborate hand gesture said, “Javier Clemente at your service.”
“Javier and his wife were students of mine, when I lived here fifteen years ago and they kindly offered me sanctuary when he heard of my … criminal status,” Maria said with a smirk.
“Yes, we always knew she was an … outlaw,” Javier laughed.
I turned and looked at Emma. “Su Ling spirited me away from my cabin in New York. She predicted that once they released you they’d pull this stunt, and that I had to disappear too.”
“And Paula Mansfield?”
“She went underground, as a legal consultant of sorts to the anti-government forces.”
I let this all sink in for a moment. “But how did you find me?”
Javier said, “Rebel satellite.”