The Day Gravity Became Irrelevant

by Ralph Rotten

  “Well, well, well. How is my special prisoner today?” Stepping through the door, Marco Asanté pretended to be pleased to see Jamie’s discomfort. In truth he wished that more distress could have been heaped on the man. But with the facility down to a single Researcher, they had been limited.

  “Piss off, ya pretty-boy faggot. If you’se lookin’ fer a reach-around then you can talk to Mohamed in the next cell; I hear he’s queer like you.” His accent clearly Jersey Jimbo, the savant was irritated at the mere sight of the agent.

  “Ooooh, did someone not sleep well?” Bending over, Marco taunted the man from just a few feet away.

  Remaining silent, Jamie tried to get some sleep on the concrete floor. Having studied Marco’s psychological profile at length he knew that the biggest weapon he had for Marco was to simply ignore the man.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you!” Kicking Jamie in the shins, Marco demanded a response.

  “Get lost, paddy-wack, you ain’t got no juice wit’ me.” Shrugging off Marco, the inventor never even opened his eyes. He knew that few things would irritate the agent like being disregarded.

  Stomping over to Jamie’s head, the agent roughly gripped him by the hair before yanking him into an upright sitting position.

  “You wanna play fucking games with me?” Shaking him by the head, Marco shouted into the savant’s face.

  “What, do I look like yer mom? You want someone to touch ya inappropriately, then call home.” Sneering, Jersey Jimbo was vitriolic as he spat out the words.

  Surprised at the response, Marco stepped back with his mouth agape.

  “What’s wrong, Marco?” Momentarily pretending to be sympathetic, Jersey Jimbo’s frown turned to a leering grin. “Don’t like being reminded of them dirty little secrets bouncin’ around yer pretty-boy head? All those men who visited your mom, every night, all night. Lemme ask you this Marky-Mark, how many of them guys visited you when they’se was done with yer Mom? Those guys who said they’se was just tuckin’ ya in…but they did a helluva lot more than tuck ya in, didn’t they? I’ll betcha a million bucks that’s the reason you like to take it in the ass; because ya got used to it that way, eh?”

  Marco’s blood froze in his veins at the things that Jamie said. It terrified him to hear these revelations from the man in the orange jumpsuit. It was as if Jamie had been able to peer into his mind.

  “What the fuck…?” Momentarily forgetting himself, Marco’s body language said that he had been pierced through the heart. Within seconds his automatic reflexes had kicked in as his expression hardened to a cruel grimace. “You little black motherfucker!”

  Grabbing Jamie by the collar, the agent’s fist lashed out as he struck the savant across the face multiple times. Rearing back for another swing, Marco felt someone grab his arm.

  “Hey!” The staff member did his best to drag Marco back from Jamie. “Out!”

  Shoving the agent out into the hallway, the Researcher slammed the door behind himself. Standing toe-to-toe with Marco, the professional interrogator leaned into him.

  “What did I tell you? You’re outta your league in there. He just played you like a fool and you totally fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.” Refusing to budge out of his personal space, the Researcher was livid. “You violated the first rule of this business; you let him get under your skin. So instead of breaking him down, you just emboldened him and undid all our work up to this point. You stupid fuck!”

  Surprised by the man’s aggression, Marco was taken aback as he realized that it was true. He had lost control in there, and now the prisoner was laughing at him. Feeling a flood of emotions, his mind was scrambling to figure out how the inventor had known those things about him. He had never revealed those details to anyone, ever. How the hell had he known all that? It never occurred to the agent that Jamie had simply studied the extensive psych tests that all federal agents must undergo during recruitment. It was amazing what could be revealed through an MMPI’s wide ranging questions.

  “Good going, Honcho, you just set us back a week. Now get the fuck outta here and let the professionals handle it.” Refusing to budge, the Researcher made it clear that there was no alternative. “And while you’re at it, maybe you should get some counseling for whatever the hell is rattling about in that head of yours. Man, you’re one fucked up piece of work.”

  In his cell, Jamie was well aware of the fact that they were likely still watching him. Rendering one of Jersey Jimbo’s leering grins, he made sure to face them. He wanted them to feel the sting of defeat.

  Through the slats of the air vent, Alexis watched her creator via the eyes of drone #1. As much as she wanted to burn out the solenoid to the door mechanism to keep anyone else from entering the room, she had her orders. Only when the time was right would she bar further entry to his pod.

  “Colonel Quinn, what exactly do you mean when you say that you have been unsuccessful at cracking this man?” Raising one eyebrow, Martin DeColle spoke to the speakerphone on Phelps’ desk.

  “Exactly that.” The Colonel’s voice was as firm as concrete. “I was already short-handed on Researchers before he arrived, and since he has been here I have lost four more.”

  “Lost?” Phelps raised an eyebrow as he reclined in his big office chair. With his jacket opened in the front, his paunch seemed to protrude more than unusual.

  “Yes sir; two in the brig, two more in the hospital, and the remaining man seems disinclined to spend any time in the room with the subject. We have been wearing him down, but it’s a slow process.” Even through the tinny speaker-phone the Colonel’s voice seemed to command respect.

  “Just who the hell do these guys think they are?” Sitting back, Phelps cursed the Sparks brothers as a scowl crossed his face.

  Crossing his stubby legs, Drummond Heckler cleared his throat before speaking.

  “Just give ‘em whatever the hell they want!” The tenor of his voice seemed to make the room pause. It was uncustomary for anyone to talk like that to the President.

  “Excuse me?” Martin tried to clarify what the man was saying.

  “I believe what my brother is trying to say is that we are happy to pay his asking price, and that we would just prefer if you made the deal instead of all this cat and mouse fiasco.” Showing a stretched smile, Robert Heckler turned to look the President square in the eye.

  “Uh…” Unsure if they were admonishing him or just angry about the circumstances, Phelps paused momentarily. “These men will be dealt with, and you will get your technology.”

  “You’ve been saying that for weeks, and all you’ve done is alienate these people and cost us more money.” Standing up, the man in the expensive blue suit immediately buttoned his jacket as he approached the desk. “Give them the damned money and anything else they ask for, and do it right fucking now.”

  Watching the two men rise from the far couches, Martin DeColle could tell that the Heckler brothers were not in a good mood, or at least no longer interested in pretending they were. As a long time political operative, Martin knew the power and political influence these men wielded.

  “Sir, that is no way to talk to the President.” Martin stepped forward.

  “Be quiet, errand boy. The adults are talking.” Robert Heckler dismissed the chief-of-staff as he drew up to the edge of the desk.

  “Jefferson, we don’t care about a measly billion dollars.” Buttoning his jacket, Drummond Heckler fixed his dour gaze upon the president. “All we care about is getting that damned technology in our hands, but you and your Keystone cops have only made that less and less certain every day since this started.”

  “Get us the damned invention!” Clearly losing his temper, Robert Heckler growled as he looked down at the president.

  “I thought the nine-year license was too short?” Pointing out things as he understood them, Phelps could feel the heat from the two men.

  “JUST GET THE FUCKING INVENTION AND STOP THINKING!” His voice echoing off of the walls of the oval o
ffice, Drummond Heckler left no doubt as to his true feelings on the matter.

  Sitting up abruptly, President Phelps cared not for being yelled at in front of his own staff.

  “I will not have you coming into my office and showing such disrespect for the…office of the president.” Injecting his own gravelly tone into words, Phelps stood his ground. By his thinking, Washington was his town, and no one talked to him that way in his domain.

  “Perhaps my brother was a little coarse in his demands.” The man in the grey suit gave a crocodile smile before continuing. “Jefferson, we don’t care about the contractual obligations, we don’t even care about the cost. We care only about possession of the technology. Once we have it in our hot, little hands we will make it our own. So I say this with all sincerity; Jefferson Phelps, you get us that damned invention immediately. No more negotiating, no more games, just get us the damned antigravity!”

  Phelps jumped visibly as the man’s voice rose to a shout at the end. He could not remember Drummond ever losing his calm like that before. Nonetheless, he cared not for having terms dictated to him in his own office.

  “I will not have you speak to me that way. I am the-” Phelps found himself cut off before he could finish.

  “Oh, shut the hell up!” His face red now, Drummond raised his voice to drown out the president. “PAY HIM WHAT HE WANTS AND GET US THE FUCKING INVENTION!”

  “Yes.” A little more calm, Robert Heckler never even blinked at his brother’s outburst. “By all means, acquire us the damned technology.”

  The room was silent as the staff looked between their president and the two men in hand-sewn suits. No one ever talked that way to Phelps. People had been fired, and subsequently blackballed, for far less than what these two men had just done. Yet there they stood, resolute in their ire for the man behind the desk.

  “Jeff.” Knowing how much the president hated having his name shortened, the man in blue leaned forward onto his knuckles. “You get us this technology by tomorrow morning or we will put someone else in that chair. Bob McDaniels will dance to whatever tune we play.”

  “Did you just threaten me…?” Aghast, Phelps intended to put an end to this disrespect.

  “No, Jefferson, we guarantee that someone else will be sitting in your chair if you do not close this deal.” Pulling a cigar out of his pocket, Drummond used his other hand to produce a small clipper to nip the tip off the stogie. Ignoring Martin DeColle’s insistence that the oval office was a non-smoking zone, the industrialist lit the hand-rolled cigar in a flash of smoke.

  “You do not walk into the office of the president and make threats, no matter who you are.” Standing now, Phelps glared back at the men.

  “Jeff, you think those flying negroids are the only ones who know about your little MENSA scandal?” Showing a villainous smile for the first time that morning, Robert Heckler allowed his teeth to show.

  “Or all of those interns…” Muttering between puffs on his cigar, Drummond seemed unconcerned that he was reeking up the oval office as if it were a pool hall.

  “Or the Philly deal.” Giving a snicker, Robert added his own detail.

  “Or the Philippines arrangement. That alone would be sure to put Bobby behind the Resolute Desk by week’s end.” Smoke leaking from his mouth as he spoke, Drummond seemed truly pleased with himself.

  “Are you…extorting the President of the United States?” Phelps was aghast at the threats.

  “Extortion? No, Jeffy.” A broad grin split Robert Heckler’s face. “It would be our patriotic duty to let the world know of these indiscretions. Now you understand this; we put you in that chair, and we can remove you from it just as easily.”

  “Get us the fucking invention. Sign the fucking contract, and promise them whatever the hell they want. Get us the antigravity or we deal with the next guy.” His smile long gone, Drummond scowled before the two brothers turned away in unison.

  Watching them go, Phelps was bewildered. Gone was his illusion of power as he realized that there was no alternative but to acquiesce to their orders.

  “What was the Philippines arrangement?” DeColle asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “Shut up.” A bitter look had washed over the president’s face as he dismissed his chief-of-staff. “Get that agent…whatever the hell her name is, the Mexican woman, get her on the phone…NOW!”

  “Yes sir.” Martin DeColle knew better than to object.

  Jenna had been stunned by the call. Despite Jack’s warning that it would happen, it had jolted her to be talking directly to the president again. She picked up a vibe though, as if he did not like her much. The conversation had been largely one-sided. When Jefferson Phelps spoke, people were expected to listen.

  But there had been something else in his tone that had set her on edge. When she inquired about the deed to the moon he had seemed surprised.

  “He says the document must be signed by Congress.” Jenna informed Phelps of the proviso detailed in the contract.

  “Oh? Whatever. Just tell him that we’re putting it all together.” Dismissive, Phelps droned over her objections.

  Eying her phone as the screen went blank, she considered her next call carefully. Racing through the details in her head, the agent’s sharp eye settled on the camera built into the phone. Staring into the electronic eye, she tried to work out all the angles. Flipping her phone over, she eyed the main camera. One thing she had never been able to explain was how Jack had found her there in the torture shack. The agents that had kidnapped her had made a point of pulling the battery out of her phone; she had seen it laying there on the little table. More importantly, how had Jack even known she’d been kidnapped?

  Still examining the camera, the considered the possibility that her phone had been hacked. Although the FBI phones featured hardened data sharing protocols, there was always the possibility that someone smart enough could crack it. Access to her camera feed would give them a view of everything she did. It also explained why her battery seemed to run dry faster than usual lately.

  And that is where Special Agent Jenna Jaramillo ran into her first ethical question about her mission. On one hand she was angry that Jack may have bugged her phone, yet grateful because it had led to her being rescued from the shrieking shack. The brothers had saved her from a vat of acid, yet she had her orders…orders that she was not entirely comfortable with. There had been something in Phelps’ blustery rambling that told her he was lying about it all. The only objective the man seemed at all genuine about was that she bring in the remaining brother and his female sidekick. On this point he was nearly rabid. Everything would be taken care of… He had muttered the phrase more than once while he lectured.

  “Jack, er, Mister Sparks, the older one, he wants his brother freed from captivity before he is willing to negotiate further.” Jenna had tried hard to get that comment in between Phelps’ monologues. The man certainly enjoys hearing himself talk.

  “No, out of the question. The man remains in protective custody. We have to ensure that they and their secrets are kept safe from our enemies.” Jefferson Phelps was resolute on that point.

  “Okay, but Jack said that if that was your answer then the price goes up another quarter billion dollars.” Jenna was surprised at the silence on the line. She had expected the president to shout, or at least drone loudly. Instead there was silence for a long moment.

  “Yes, we had that conversation already. The purchasers have agreed to pay the extra quarter billion penalty. Sold.” Letting the line go dead, President Jefferson Phelps hung up abruptly.

  Sitting back in his chair, Phelps let out a sigh as the far door popped open the least little bit. Poking her head in uncertainly, Kelly seemed to dread her task. Darting forward, she laid the updated contract on the desk before her president.

  “This just popped out of my printer. The coversheet said to disregard all previous contracts.” Shrinking back, the secretary wanted to be anywhere but there. Exiting quickly, she wan
ted no part of that phone call. The President and his inner circle had been insufferable since the Queen Mary episode began.

  Picking up the papers to examine them, Phelps could see that they were identical to the previous contracts, the only change being that the purchaser’s shell corporations were now listed.

  “Should I have White House counsel examine these first?” It occurred to Jefferson that it might be a good idea to have a lawyer look at the document.

  “It’s not your concern.” A fresh grey suit, Drummond Heckler dismissed the question. “The business deal is between us and him. We get the technology, and you get to safeguard him for the rest of his life. Very simple.”

  “Why’d he list your companies first?” Squinting at the contract, the Robert Heckler seemed bewildered at the order of the names on the extensive contract.

  “Quit your fussing and go find two billion dollars in cash.” Casual aplomb, the older of the two brothers actually smiled.

  “I thought it was only a billion and three quarters?” Furrowing his beefy brows, the man in blue seemed unsure of himself.

  “It is currently, but I have a feeling that Jeffrey is going to do something stupid and cost us another quarter billion dollar penalty.” Dryly, he chewed the cigar while looking President Phelps right in the eye. “We need an address where we can deliver twenty tons of cash?”

  It had been another convoluted day at the office for Jenna. Although she was no longer on admin leave, her status as POC to the brothers had put her in a special category at the FBI. Too important to be dragged away to other investigations, the young Latina agent found herself in a holding pattern. Worse yet, even though she had no control over the Sparks brothers, she felt the heat when Jack failed to call all day. Between her SAIC constantly checking her progress, and the guys from IT examining her phone to be sure it was still working, she had spent her entire day in this listless mode, waiting for a call that never came.

  It had finally become too much for her. Finding her way out the front door by 1630 hours, she silently gave them the slip. Picking her way down the steps, she was surprised to see a battered 1965 Mustang convertible covered in grey primer. Even more shocking was the sight of Jack E. Sparks standing by the door with a smile on his face. As if oblivious to who worked in the building, he seemed unconcerned with the agents that passed him on their way up the stairs.