The Prometheus Effect

by David Fleming

  “Special technologies.” Sebastian smiled and relaxed into his chair. Dealing with reporters usually entailed a mix of chess and poker. He had to think several moves ahead and not pull out his ace in the hole until it was time to checkmate. This reporter seemed oblivious to the fact that he dealt with a pro. Sebastian played the game better than anyone.

  “Alien technology?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Why were you fired?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  The reporter consulted his notes before continuing, “Everyone we’ve interviewed about government conspiracies in the past has turned out to be, if you will forgive the term, a crackpot. What evidence do you have to convince the common person that you are a trustworthy source?”

  Sebastian knew if he divulged anything about aliens or alien artifacts, he would indeed be painted as a crackpot, and his credibility would be shot all to hell. He would fare little better if he told the truth. Few people wanted to know the truth these days, fewer still told it, and only a minute fraction lived it. And that truth-worshiping minority was of no use to Sebastian. He needed a much larger audience. One accustomed to living a lie, because it was easier and more comfortable than reality.

  “I have NSA credentials and recent pay stubs if you wish to see hard evidence to confirm my previous employment.” Sebastian pulled an envelope from his suit jacket and presented it to the reporter. “The badge has a DNA chip in it, though the encryption is likely no longer valid.”

  “Well, we use a similar security system here at the studio.” The reporter smiled into the camera. “We’ll take a look at these while we go to commercial break. Stay tuned!”

  ***

  The obese woman most likely never even tasted the pancakes she shoveled away as easily as she breathed. “Jess, dear, may I have another plate of flapjacks please?”

  “Sure.”

  Seeing Sebastian on TV was as close as Jessica ever wanted to be to him again. She was so glad the base guards at Nellis had allowed her to escape in a taxi before he was permitted to leave the bus. She was sure he would have followed if given a chance. But now, watching Sebastian divulge state secrets, she couldn’t tear herself away from the train wreck she saw coming. TV reporters loved ruthless questions, and that last smile into the camera radiated pure malice. Sebastian’s answers were supplying the rope for his own hanging—she just knew it.

  She set another short-stack plate and warm syrup pot on the table.

  “Oh, you are a dear. Reading my mind. Where did they ever find you at?”

  ***

  “Welcome back. We’re here with Sebastian Falstano, formerly a secret government agent… or was he?” The reporter turned from the camera to Sebastian. “Well, I have good news and bad news.” The camera zoomed in on the holoprint ID between the reporter’s thumb and index finger. “According to the chip in your ID badge, you are indeed Sebastian Falstano. Unfortunately, you don’t even have enough player points on it to earn a free buffet dinner.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your ID badge is a player card for a local casino,” the reporter said. He raised his eyebrows as if this was something Sebastian should already know. “Apparently the card’s surface was carefully cleaned and holoprinted to look like authentic NSA credentials. Though, no one really does know what such credentials look like, do they?”

  ***

  The obese lady let out a bark of laughter. Jessica suppressed an impulse to giggle as she lifted another sticky plate from the table.

  ***

  Outwardly, Sebastian exuded calm. Inwardly, he fumed with rage. That card had gained him access to NSA headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland, prior to his mission to evaluate the artifact. He had kept it in a safe deposit box until last week, and it had never been out of his possession since. Either the reporter was lying to embarrass him, or someone had switched his card out of the box. More likely the latter, but that meant they planned to dismiss him. Why?

  The reporter pressed on. “The pay stubs you submitted would be even easier to fabricate. Do you really expect our viewers to believe a story about government conspiracies from a man with a fake ID?”

  Sebastian unbuttoned his shirt and thrust his chest toward the reporter, exposing a neat circular scar in the center of his sternum. “I was shot and drugged to preserve the secrecy of the technology I witnessed on my last assignment.”

  “Enough, Mr. Falstano. Are you going to show us scars from your alien abductions next? Concrete proof, sir. If you don’t have any, we’re done here.”

  Sebastian maintained his poise. He reached into his shirt and withdraw a large manila envelope. It contained two color prints, which he laid on the table between himself and the reporter. They showed high-resolution satellite images of craters from an old nuclear test site. The same crater was circled in each image, with the differing features labeled.

  “If you will compare the images,” Sebastian said, “you will notice that a great deal of dirt has been moved to create a crater—and that same dirt has been relocated to add a finger to this mountain range here.” He tapped the spot on the print. “Beneath this crater is a massive particle accelerator. Electromagnetic and thermologic jammers camouflage emissions to prevent its detection by foreign spy satellites. The first image can be found on the internet, on almost any nuclear history site. The second image can only be acquired by spy satellites.”

  The reporter picked up the prints, his eyes scanning rapidly between the two. “Why would the government build such a thing here?”

  “What better place to build a secret installation than in an old nuclear crater near an abandoned, yet well-known, secret military base?”

  “If memory serves me, that base was abandoned because it was severely contaminated by toxic waste.”

  “Wouldn’t that keep away a curious person in search of concrete truth?” Sebastian tossed back.

  The reporter nodded absentmindedly. “Okay. Big question. Why?”

  “They developed fusion technology with that accelerator. The applications are limitless. Of course they would want to keep it to themselves.”

  The reporter dropped the prints back onto the table. “Even with these images, which the government is sure to have another explanation for, you’re just a disgruntled ex-employee—if that. One man with a story. Without others to corroborate your evidence…” The reporter shrugged and let his words hang in the air like an invisible rope above his victim.

  Sebastian pulled another print from the manila envelope and held it up. “Then ask her,” he said.

  The camera zoomed in on a photo of a woman.

  “She worked in the accelerator facility and was escorted off the base the same day I was. She now works at Sticky’s Pancake House. Her name is Jessica Stafford.”

  Checkmate.

  ***

  “Oh—my—God,” the fat lady sang.

  Damn that incompetent assassin. Jessica spun away before the plate she dropped hit the floor. Shards of white porcelain tinkled about her heels. She tore off her apron and nametag. With a backhanded flip, she tossed them behind her as she swept into the kitchen to retrieve her purse. One pale fleshy face stared openmouthed at her as she glided back through the restaurant and outside into the darkness.

  She had underestimated him. That print of her was recent and actually taken inside her restaurant. She had to get away, somewhere, anywhere.

  Up ahead, a transit bus was slowing to a stop. She boarded it. Sensors automatically debited the pass in her purse. It didn’t matter where the bus was going; she didn’t look, she didn’t care. As long as it was moving away from the restaurant, that was good enough for her.

  The phone in her purse rang. She pulled it out. It was her mother, probably calling to ask if that was her she had seen on television. She ignored the call, switched off the phone, and dropped it back into her purse. She couldn’t go home, and she certainly couldn’t go back to work. With o
nly ten dollars in her purse and no credit card, her travel options consisted of this bus and her own two legs.

  Damn him! He’s trying to force me to support his story.

  And she could do it, too. She could sell her side of the story and pay off everything. Selling her soul would be so easy. Being true to it had left her broke, jobless, and homeless. And besides, what was an oath besides vibrating vocal cords and scribbles on processed tree pulp? They certainly hadn’t treated her fairly, or they would have investigated and known she was innocent. She had never had her integrity put to such a difficult test—

  Wait.

  Test!

  Her hands flew to her face and slowly rose to the top of her head. She grabbed bunches of silky auburn hair in clenched fists.

  She suddenly understood. Ever since she had taken that first entry-level civil service exam, she had been discreetly—no, deviously—tested. From the answers already circled on that exam to the classified folder in that polyhedral chamber. Honesty. Integrity. Trust. Words written on every document she signed. Until she proved herself worthy, her oath and signatures were worthless. And that meant… That meant everything she had seen was fake. They wouldn’t divulge true secrets until she had proven she could keep meaningless ones.

  It was obvious now. It would have been so pitifully easy for them to fabricate everything she had seen. A standard home computer could have run the program mimicking space probe feeds. 3D LCD screens must have been the walls, and the classified folder had to contain a tasty tidbit on some other faux technology. Bastards. They cuffed me in that seat next to Sebastian on purpose!

  With a new perspective on things, Jessica smoothed back her hair and relaxed.

  Her phone buzzed again. That was weird; she was sure she had turned it off. She removed it from her purse and looked at the dark screen. It was definitely turned off.

  That’s the answer. Sitting right in my palm. If she was right about everything, then she had no doubt they had modified her phone, tracked it, tapped it.

  Feeling a tad crazy, she spoke to the powered-down phone. “Your move, Jack.”

  Melancholy tainted her anticipation. Up until a few minutes ago, faster-than-light technology had existed, and for a brief moment, so did fusion. Someday it still might.

  She pushed those thoughts aside. Her immediate need was to avoid Sebastian, the media, and anyone who might recognize her from that broadcast. She couldn’t ride on this bus forever; it would eventually reach the end of its scheduled route. She would need to—

  The phone vibrated in her hand, sending a chill up her arm that coursed through her body. The screen lit and displayed the text: E PLURIBUS UNUM.

  Jessica groaned. Will the tests never cease?

  The E Pluribus Unum, owned and operated by the government, enjoyed the distinction of being the largest casino in Vegas, if not the world, sprawling over two city blocks. The government purchased Caesars Palace and the Bellagio and imploded the buildings in spectacular fashion, then created a new megacasino on the combined property. Even from a mile away, it looked like you could reach out and touch it. In the history of government projects, this had proved the most successful. Not only did it turn a hefty profit every year, but even in the event of a lucky streak by a patron, the government immediately took half their winnings.

  Unfortunately, Jessica’s bus was heading in the wrong direction. Well, it’s not much farther to the next stop. I can get off and head back on foot. A brisk walk will do me good.

  ***

  At the neon-lit porte-cochère, Jessica slowed her pace. She didn’t know where to go, but thought it wise to disappear among the sea of gamblers and tourists inside. Stale cigarette smoke and the drone of thousands of gaming machines filled the air.

  A cocktail waitress brushed past her and whispered, “Tower one, elevator five,” before yelling out once again, “Cocktails!”

  Jessica made her way to the bank of elevators in tower one. A handful of people were already waiting. One kept pushing the call button as if it would speed up the process. She didn’t want to be in the same elevator with a button-mashing moron and reverently hoped car number five would be empty.

  Strobes began flashing throughout the casino, accompanied by a piercing wail. A calm voice recording began repeating a request to “Please exit the building.” Apparently the fire alarm had been activated.

  But no one seemed to care. When the elevators arrived, those inside exited, and those who had been waiting entered. Normally, Jessica would have judged this to be an idiot test, for no intelligent person would get into an elevator during a fire. Fortunately, they had long ago made elevators smarter than the “sheeple” who abused them. During a fire they were designed to return to the lowest uninvolved fire floor, open their doors, and remain open and unmoving until the fire department determined they were safe to use.

  It took a few moments of button-mashing for the new occupants to give up and exit the unresponsive transports. Jessica waited until they were clear, then she stepped into car number five.

  Every surface inside the elevator mirrored her reflection, except the floor. She tried to make herself presentable. How did one greet Jack the Ripper?

  The elevator doors started to close, but before they closed all the way, a man moved swiftly through the slivered opening.

  “Hello, Jessica,” Sebastian said between breaths as if he had been running. He removed a subcompact pistol from his jacket.

  Jessica slowly lowered a hand from her hair.

  “Expecting someone else?” Sebastian asked while wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  Completely caught off guard, she replied, “That’s none of your business.”

  The elevator rose.

  “My business is exactly what this is about. I need you to corroborate my story.” He waggled the pistol at her. “You dead works fine with me, but it would be less messy if you cooperated.”

  Sebastian pushed several buttons on the panel, but they kept going up. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me, bitch!” he yelled. “You raced all the way here like you were on a mission. Now what is it?”

  They were over fifty levels up now and still climbing. As fast as they were moving, it wouldn’t take long to get to roof level. She needed to stall him. “You had me followed?” she asked.

  “Of course. You didn’t think you could disappear unobserved, did you? I knew who you were before you went to bed that first night home from the base. A hundred dollars goes a long way in bribing a taxi driver, and a thousand will buy a lot of pancakes,” he smirked.

  Now Jessica was mad. She had been nice to that slack-faced cow. To know now that she had been spying on her raised her hackles.

  The elevator slowed, and the letter “R” glowed in the destination window.

  Sebastian shoved Jessica in front of him as the door opened.

  A slender man in a well-tailored gray suit waited in the elevator vestibule. Kneeling at his sides were men with readied automatic weapons. Another stood behind him, scanning the area.

  The suited man smiled when he saw Jessica—but then he saw Sebastian, and he clenched his jaw. “I told you to come alone!” He struck Jessica’s face with a backhanded blow, sending her sprawling to the back corner of the elevator.

  Sebastian raised his pistol.

  “Well, well,” the suited man said, “if it isn’t Sebastian. Shoot him.”

  “Wait!” Sebastian cried. He immediately dropped his weapon, which was retrieved by one of the armed men.

  The suited man made a signal to forestall the execution. “Why should we let you live?” he asked. He pointed at Jessica. “She’s selling us fusion technology. What have you got—besides a grudge about having been fired?”

  This was news to Sebastian. He had figured Jessica for the goody-goody type, not someone devious enough to toil at a minimum-wage job while marketing state secrets. She had him a
t a disadvantage. He had to risk upping the ante.

  “The location of something even greater,” he said.

  “Greater than fusion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bullshit. What is it?”

  Sebastian swallowed. “An alien artifact. Recently discovered on the moon. Its technology has been operating for over a billion years with an unknown energy source.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s hidden in a cave on Earth now, only accessible by submarine. They drugged me to protect its location, but I found out anyway. According to intelligence reports in a classified file, they’re afraid to move it.”

  “Miss Stafford, can you verify his story?” the man asked.

  Blood ran from Jessica’s nose and dripped into a shiny warm puddle. She looked up at the man who had struck her—the man who now had the gall to want her to answer his questions. She clenched her jaw in defiance.

  “I asked you a question,” the man said, stepping toward her menacingly. He went to a knee beside her and pulled the left side of his jacket open. From an inside pocket, he withdrew an ebony-handled straight razor and smoothly thumbed open the blade. In a calm, deliberate motion, he placed its cold edge against the thin skin below her jaw line. She shivered. A simple flick of his wrist would sever her from this life.

  “Answer,” he demanded. “The truth.”

  Jessica felt her pulse struggling to beat against the pressure of the razor. He had deceived her, struck her and now he threatened to take her life.

  But she was unafraid. For when he had opened his jacket, she had seen, hanging from a silver clip on his inside coat pocket, a military identification badge—with a name she recognized.

  She looked up at him. He gave her an imperceptible nod and a wink.

  His actions had saved her life. She wanted to hug this man holding a deadly weapon to her throat. Jack the Ripper, indeed.