System Seven

by Parks, Michael

  An overhead paging system crackled to life, the voice drably male. “You are approaching Ring One’s boundaries. Please review your programming guide and select only the appropriate programs for the core. Thank you.”

  Ahead in the dim light of the plant, the conveyor belt ended in a huge rotating Petri dish. Dozens of skeletons lined its edges. He tried scrambling back but the conveyor tore at his hands. The belt folded underneath and he dropped down into the glass enclosure. The walls stood over twice his height, too slippery and high to scale. A glance at the skylight revealed low clouds, possibly smoke, obscuring the view of the galaxy.

  He shouldn’t have trusted the machines.

  The dream paused then, as if time was a component and not a constant. It slowly dissolved and left him awake and uncomfortable in his seat.

  The hour before dawn in the County of London proved delightful. Cool air and openness helped counteract the long flight. He’d slept until landing but memory of the dream had left a funk. Threaded with symbolism, it felt threatening and worse, relevant. The treadmill fit, a perfect representation of life since the file arrived. He’d trusted the machines only to find out they were part of a trap. An allegory for the Runa Korda? The comet, a symbol for what? Alien contact? And why didn’t it impact? Or had it? The petri dish was the most revealing because it mirrored the feeling he’d had since the hospital – that he was an experiment. Or perhaps it was mankind that was the experiment.

  Following instructions, he arrived by cab at the Hilton at Canary Wharf. The hotel stood sleek and modern, surrounded by the Thames River on three sides. Checking in was a slightly nervous affair. The clerk’s awareness was palatable, reading his vibe without revealing much of her own. Javier’s training kicked in and he babbled about how excited he was to be in London for the first time. The business visitor slash tourist. The boring fuck. Nothing shifted in the woman. He accepted his room card and thanked her without having gleaned a drop of information from her. Naturally contained or something more?

  He headed for the elevators. Spots of energy drew his eye; every time it was either a person or a hotel security camera. Could meta energy be seen? Transmitted via electronics? The questions he’d forgot to ask piled up.

  He entered his room on the thirteenth floor where full length windows revealed a sunrise breaking over central London. In the mirrored wall of the entry he saw the face he’d chosen. Handsome but not striking. Average but not boring.

  He unpacked and took a shower. All his little scars were absent, replaced with new ones. As amazing as their body crafting expertise was, it all paled compared to the timeframe in which it had occurred, including the healing. No incision lines, no suture marks of any kind. The doctor had declined explaining how, saying only, “You are in fortunate company, Austin, in fortuitous times. However, I recommend not getting hit in the face in the next couple of weeks.”

  The meeting at a pub in the Epping Forest on the outskirts of London wasn’t until dinner time. They presumed he’d sleep but for the moment the thought wasn’t desirable nor were the instructions to stay put in his room. Instead, hunger and visions of a big English breakfast led him to the door for a walk. The hotel restaurant couldn’t be too much a travel violation.

  The phone rang on the night stand. He went to answer it.

  A stranger’s voice said sternly, “Tsk, tsk. Use room service. Check your pillow, now.” The line clicked off. They were with him, then. He had to tear open a pillow to retrieve a cell phone from its center. It booted up and within seconds rang.

  “Greetings, program.” The same stranger’s voice, now clipped from encryption. “I know I suggested Germany or Thailand but I suppose London will have to do.”

  “Ramaet?”

  “Not a name you should repeat, but yes. I couldn’t resist being the one to call. Heard you’ve been through hell. Again, I’m sorry for that. Can’t say I didn’t try to warn you, though.”

  “Why did you send it to me?”

  “Got to save something for tonight. Order up breakfast, take a nap, watch the tube, but don’t leave the room until quarter of five and keep the phone with you. See you at dinner.”

  The sheer enchantment of the forest rolling past the cab’s windows mesmerized. The woods suspended energy, lingering with memories that spanned centuries. Austin almost expected a band of knights on horseback or a king’s hansom under escort to appear up the road.

  Despite the mansions, cottages, and small stores dotting the countryside, the woods dominated with their aged splendor and stories. They quietly tolerated the artificial growth around them. A shady glade surrounded by a dense thicket of trees came into view, its opening like an arch formed by Arthur’s magician. The desire to enter the glade and process the energy nearly made him halt the cab. Things had happened in that clearing. A great many things in time. It was sad to see the driver oblivious to it all. His mood was that of civilized irritation at having to drive so far from the busywork of the city. All the lost tips.

  The cab slowed in front of an old four-story hotel with the words ‘Kings Oak’ lettered across the second story. The pub was on the first floor with a crowd packed in, visible through windows. A parking lot brimmed with people coming and going. A wedding reception was underway somewhere on the grounds, evidenced by a decorated limo in the lot. Half a dozen touring motorcyclists pulled away as Austin paid the driver. He enjoyed the driver’s surprise and relief at the remarkable tip.

  “Hey chap! Yes, Allen, isn’t it?”

  A pudgy Brit stepped forward, hand out – the kind of Brit that looked out of place without a butler’s uniform. “Don’t think me daft but I’m up from the residence down the road, sent to fetch you. Martin Williams.” They shook hands. “The pub’s full and while the restaurant’s a muster at Mexican food, the steak is sometimes a tad naff. If you’ll come with me, there’s a proper English dinner scheduled for you and friends.”

  “I think you’re mistaken, I’m to meet someone here for dinner. Perhaps you’re thinking of another Allen?”

  His red cheeks rounded in a smile. “Back in the day... I’d have thought maybe. But no, I am well acquainted with your face. Please, dallying won’t do. Maybe this will help.”

  The cell phone in his pocket vibrated with a text.

  “Might want to check that.”

  Go with him. -Edward

  He could only nod. “Lead the way, Martin.”

  “Please, call me Williams.”

  They set out in a sleek brown Jaguar XF. Williams pointed to a sweeping open space the size of a football field as he drove.

  “High Beech, birthplace of the British Speedway.”

  “Car racing?”

  Williams shook his head. “Motorcycles. Dirt track racing, 1928. Imagine thirty thousand people crushed in and around that expanse. Yes, thirty thousand. ‘Twas all the rage. They’d only expected about four thousand. Oh the crashes! Bloody marvelous times those were.”

  Dense forest lined the road on their left, manor houses to their right. A formidable estate loomed, surrounded by wrought iron fencing. A spiral tower rose from the third story. A mansion sprawled in an L-shape to cup the grounds in a cozy manner. Williams steered towards the already swinging gate. A stone driveway led to a roundabout with a water fountain in the center. To the left, the driveway split off towards a shaded garage area. Williams pulled up in front of stairs that led to a pair of oversized doors inlaid with stained glass.

  “And welcome to Shamrock,” he said, climbing from the car.

  “Shamrock?” He paused, aware of a gathering sense of enigma. Almost physical, the flow took its place amidst other impressions.

  “Aye.” Williams opened the stained glass doors to a foyer with another, much smaller fountain at its center. “They’re gathered in the gazebo down back, enjoying the snacks Edward insists upon. He’ll spoil his dinner, filling up. Often does.”

  Four wide steps led down to a great room with a fireplace fit for a beach bonfire. A wall of win
dows revealed an expanse of lawn so green it seemed to make its own light, even in the shade.

  Williams opened a pair of French doors to a brick patio. The mansion sat atop a hill with the back lawn rolling down and then out to a fence of trees and bush surrounding the property. At the edge of the patio Williams indicated the gazebo below. “What’d you like? An ale? American beer? Dinner’s about half an hour out.”

  “Ah, whatever you’d drink, thanks.”

  “Trustin’ lad, aren’t ya? Me personal? I’d be drinkin’ what they ‘ave down there.”

  One thing was clear: fairytales weren’t based solely on imagination. Shamrock could give rise to a hundred such tales, as beautiful and mysterious as it was. The air itself held the enigma, so different from the rest of the woods. Driving in, he’d sensed the history in the forest, the stories bound in the spaces. Here it was different. It actually drew out more from imagination than it gave. He’d never visited a place so neutral yet so full of possibility.

  He started down the steps with a rising pulse. Eyes were upon him, featherlike brushes of scrutiny. Staying passive, he soaked up enough information to know a mix of trained and untrained minds lie ahead.

  The gazebo had a table surrounded by a dozen chairs, nearly half of them occupied. Two faces stood out. Edward’s was a welcome sight – the other belonged to a blond woman, sensually magnetic but far more noticeable for one reason: he could no more read or manipulate her than he could a rock. Holding her hand was a mellow guy without a ripple of ego. Sitting next to Edward was a wiry, reserved fellow with cropped hair and mirrored oval shades. Beside him sat a rough looking hombre of Spanish descent, clearly untrained.

  Edward stood to greet Austin as he topped the stairs.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Crichlow.” His grin was genuine, as was the warm handshake. “Compared to our last visit, you look like a new man.”

  “Coincidentally I feel like one, too.”

  Edward gestured to the wiry fellow with the shades. “Austin, this is Sean, our chief technologist.”

  He could have guessed; Sean exuded a measured and precise vibe like he thought in code. Sean said his welcome with a slight nod.

  Edward went on to introduce Soldado. “He is a professional associate of this gentleman,” he indicated the man sitting with the blond, “whom you’ve had contact with but I believe this to be your first meeting. Austin, meet Johan.”

  It was him. Older, not what he’d imagined at all yet inexplicably familiar. The hacker came around the table to greet him.

  “They say the stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind.”

  Austin shook his hand. “Bend to not break, yes.” A teaching of the Tao, it embodied all the lessons and sacrifices so far. “I’ll admit that at one time I imagined quite a different meeting.”

  “I don’t blame you. I only knew it could be important and should live beyond what I did with it. You appreciate that now, no?” He returned to sit by the woman. “This is Anki, my very good friend.”

  They exchanged nods. She said, “I know so much has happened. I hope things will turn out okay.”

  She meant his dad. “That makes two of us. Nice to meet you.”

  Edward offered Austin a glass of wine and raised his own, calling for a toast.

  “To new family and friends. To change.”

  • • •

  Anki followed Edward towards his study, more winded than she should have been thanks to her pounding heart. They’d just finished dinner and he’d asked for a private talk before they rejoined the others.

  Her hopes soared.

  He knew something about her, had to. Her hyper-empathy was a mystery, as much a curse as a blessing. No one got away with feeling anything without her feeling it too, or at least sensing its charge. Long ago she’d learned to segment from it, to preserve her sense of self. Little by little, she’d learned to use it but only sparingly as it could be a most uncomfortable gift. She hoped they would help her with training as they had Johan.

  “Please, sit down. Relax,” he gestured.

  She settled into a leather chair before his desk.

  He sat down and regarded her. “How are you feeling?”

  He referred to the modifications and surgery. “More sensitive, as if that’s possible. I wasn’t expecting it. Some advanced notice would have been nice.”

  “I’m sorry for that. It does take some getting used to.”

  A spell of silence grew awkward.

  He said, “So, tell me, what am I feeling?”

  It wasn’t hard to realize Edward gave off no feeling. Rare was the person who wasn’t emoting something. Since he wasn’t, she tried to probe him. At first there was a sensation of calm and contentment but then she caught something more, a sense of anticipation. Hidden, suppressed, but having glimpsed it, she had confidence it was there.

  “You’re feeding me.”

  “What exactly?”

  “That you’re expecting something. Something great. You’ve waited a long time for it.”

  Edward looked down at his desk and smiled before looking up again. “Very good. Not many people can read at that level.”

  “Okay...”

  He turned his computer monitor around to face her. “Watch this video. Which of the people in the crowd is unreadable?”

  Before she could reply, a scene at an airport appeared, the footage from a handheld camera pointed at a boarding line. About two dozen people were in the frame. “It’s not reliable–”

  “Try. You’ve got less than a minute before they start to board.”

  Once she managed to forget the screen and focus, the passengers were fairly easy to read. There was one, a male, that couldn’t be read – flat as the screen itself. “Third from the last, in the tan suit.”

  “Now probe him.”

  “It’s a recording!”

  “You’re already reading the recording. Try probing him.”

  She did, despite the awkwardness. It lacked the give and take, the live response, but surprisingly there was something – the same kind of block that Edward had shown. Now, though, it felt hollow, as if through a tunnel or tube. Still the reading came through the recording, which meant through time, an even more surprising experience. She managed to sidestep past the block and press forward to find a murderous rage.

  “Oh hell. He’s going to kill someone. He’s about to go ballistic.”

  He nodded, releasing satisfaction for her to feel. “Let me rewind it a bit. Now, who in the line is serving up a fake emotion?”

  Emoting on purpose. “Ah. Okay, wow. The woman? Fifth from the front. She’s bored on the outside but really very agitated, I think. I don’t know how I missed that.”

  “You didn’t have a reason to look, is all.”

  “Who are these people? And how did you know I could probe them on a recording?”

  “Some were our people. Not the angry man. And I wasn’t certain you could. I had a hunch.”

  “A hunch?”

  “When one spends time with those gifted in the meta arts, they tend to absorb the gifts.”

  “But I haven’t.”

  He turned the screen back facing him. “A few questions for you. First, do you like lemonade?”

  She laughed. “What does that have to do with anything? Sure I like lemonade.”

  Edward nodded. “Is your absolute favorite color orange?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love museums, late eighteenth century especially?”

  She paused, then forced a laugh, uneasy at the intrusion. “You can stop the demonstration. I know you read minds.”

  “I assure you I am not,” he replied quietly. “When you hear flute music do you think of your mother?”

  “Edward.” She stared. “Please? What does this mean?”

  “When you were a little girl did the rumble of trains frighten you beyond all reason? Do they still?”

  “Enough!” she blurt
ed. In the abrupt silence, she probed him hard. What she found was deep love mixed with relief – and a raging current of conflict beneath it all.

  “Fascinating.” He sat back in his chair and sighed. “Flùr air a’ raon.”

  “What?”

  “Flùr air a’ raon. The flower growing in the field.”

  She didn’t hide her irritation. “Please share the joke because I don’t get it.”

  “Who is Sarah Debeere?”

  “A friend of my mother’s.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “She found me online a few years back. Why do you ask?”

  “She’s helped you quite a bit, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes, she has.”

  “A wealthy woman. She gave you the money to buy the internet café.”

  “Loaned, but yes. What’s the point, Edward?”

  “Sarah is of the Runa Korda. You’ve been protected since you were twenty years old.”

  She shook her head. “Protected? Me? Why on earth?”

  “A short story will explain, if you don’t mind hearing it. A long time ago someone had a vision of a woman of great power who would fall at the hands of our enemy but might come again when our needs were the greatest. That woman was named Clare and she came to us in the summer of 1880 from within the Korda. She was killed in the San Francisco quake of 1906.”

  “You loved her. My God, how old are you?”

  He returned her look. “Many people loved her. She returned as predicted, almost forty years later.”

  “Returned? As in reincarnated?”

  “Essentially yes. Few know the story and you are one that must. You cannot, however, share it with anyone. Not even Johan. Will you abide such secrecy?”

  “I’m wondering if I want to know.”

  “You have to, but I need your word. Johan will know in time. For now it is for you alone.”

  “Okay.” She nodded. “You have my word.”

  Convinced, he continued. “Clare returned with her metabody and memories intact. In her twenties she was being trained in the latest meta arts by a man named Steffan. He and Clare soon created a child. However, as the most unfortunate of circumstances would have it, Steffan was being tracked by Comannda. They tried to subjugate Clare.”