Unfiction

by Gene Doucette

  “I’m not hearing an answer.”

  “That place you spoke of. Pallas, yes? You will go there and you will await further instructions. You have thirty minutes.”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna need more time than that.”

  “What makes you think you are in any position to negotiate?”

  “Koestler, look around. There’s no public transportation, the cars are all dead, and this is just a guess, but I think sprinting in a suicide vest is a bad idea. Plus, we’ve been trying to get to Pallas since the middle of the afternoon, it’s just not that easy a commute.”

  “You are going to run out of time in your effort to talk me to death, as always. You now have twenty minutes.”

  “All right, how about this? She’s gonna be holding the vial you’re so keen on, so if you blow her up, you blow up your prize too.”

  “This would aerosolize the pathogen. You would not be so reckless.”

  “I admit, it’s not ideal, but if that happens I’ll be dead too, so maybe I don’t care all that much about the consequences.”

  There was a long silence, as Koestler ran through his options.

  Oliver thought he was foolish for having arranged all this without a secondary consequence, like another hostage, and Koestler wasn’t a foolish man. This meant Oliver was missing something.

  “All right, you have one hour.”

  “Might take longer.”

  “One hour, and then I will set off the bomb and let this entire nation go to hell.”

  Koestler hung up.

  “Did you just use our lives as collateral to buy more time?” Minnie asked. She looked a little nonplussed, but that might have been the bomb she was wearing.

  “Not really. Pretty sure he’s bluffing.”

  “Why, because he doesn’t want to release a pathogen in the city?”

  “He’s motivated by money these days. When he was younger, it was the cause, but not any more. The vial is worthless to him if he can’t sell it.”

  “How do you know any of that?”

  “No idea. Let’s just go with it.”

  He pulled out the Lot 42 box from his back pocket.

  “Now, we have a little less than an hour to figure out what this really is and to disarm that bomb.”

  “I thought you guys said it was a lethal virus or something.”

  “Could be. I never wrote any of this down. W is for weapon, but that could mean a lot of things. All I know is, Koestler wants me to think that’s what it is. Just like he wants me to think he’s okay with blowing it up. Wilson? I could use some plot advice.”

  He turned around to the space Wilson last occupied when they emerged from the entrance of Mad Maggie’s/Daniel’s. Wilson wasn’t there.

  “Where’d he go this time?” he asked.

  “You saw Wilson?” Minnie asked.

  “He was with us. Didn’t you see him?”

  “Just you two.”

  “He is a sorcerer,” Cant said. “Their trickery is no surprise.”

  “If you feel that way, maybe you should stop kidnapping them. But you just gave me an idea. I need a modern wizard. I need the Internet.”

  “Is that one of your gods?” Cant asked.

  “It might as well be.”

  “The city has no power,” Minerva said.

  “But the cell phone towers are working, babe,” he said, holding up Koestler’s phone. “So let’s get moving.”

  “All right. But, did you just call me babe?”

  The trip to Ollie’s apartment was only ten minutes at a casual pace, which they took. It looked like the local alien invaders were on a break.

  Minerva seemed a little on edge on account of the bomb she was stuck inside of, and wanted to move faster, but Oliver wasn’t kidding when he said it seemed like a bad idea to sprint when wearing one of those things.

  He had the irrational belief that he could disarm the bomb vest when the time came. It was irrational because it stemmed from an understanding of how bombs worked that he was pretty sure he didn’t actually have, but that Orson likely did. That was good enough, because the other thing Orson had a lot of was confidence. And hyper-competence was a job requirement, so he had good reason.

  “Tell me what this is,” Minerva asked, when they were about a block from the apartment building.

  “It’s a techno-thriller. Or something like it. Something with spies. Maybe a Cold War story.”

  “Did you write one? I don’t remember hearing about it.”

  “No, but it was going to be next. Also, I think Koestler might have been the pilot of that helicopter that crashed outside of your building.”

  “The one we saved? He doesn’t sound very grateful.”

  “He doesn’t, does he? Well, that’s Koestler for you.”

  Minnie laughed.

  “Your old friend, Koestler,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you were going to follow me into that smoke.”

  “Well, somebody had to.”

  “Glad you did. I was worried you were going to stay passive. Sure, now I have a bomb on my chest, but it’s mostly worked out.”

  “I guess. I’m pretty positive I’ve completely lost my mind, sweetheart, but I figured I’d better get to the end of this first and then pick up the pieces. Might as well embrace the absurd.”

  “That’s the spirit. So what makes you think he was the pilot?”

  “I don’t think he was the pilot; I think he was the guy sitting in the pilot’s seat. But that’s splitting hairs. I was thinking of this plot when the chopper went down, and the plot I was thinking of had a crash in it.”

  “So did your military sci-fi. Inferentially.”

  “Ben from my romance outline had a map to treasure that was hidden in the floor of the store from my ghost story, which I found with the help of a warrior from my epic fantasy. Everything’s running into everything else. I wonder why he was named Ben?”

  “He was just a sketch. All you wrote was an outline.”

  “Yeah, but his name was Nathan in the outline. Yet you said the first time you heard Ben’s name you knew he was important. I still don’t get why. Was it because he had a last name?”

  “That was half the reason, yes,” Minerva said. “But only half.”

  “What was this Ben’s family name?” Cant asked.

  Minerva smiled.

  “It was Codeks, Cant,” she said.

  Cant laughed.

  “Ben Codeks!”

  Then Oliver got it. Maybe he needed Cant to say it out loud first.

  “Ben, for Benja Codex,” Ollie said. “That’s cute.”

  “Indeed! The ur-text for the legend of the Kingdom itself, hidden in human form, in this strange land. That potion so coveted by your foe, the sorcerer Koestler, is the key to the Kingdom itself, for that is the only thing the Benja Codex could be leading us to. Where is this man now?”

  “He died,” Minnie said. “He had a heart attack. We tried to save him.”

  “This only means you’ve lost track of the codex,” Cant said. “As before, you cannot kill what is not alive.”

  They got to the stoop of the apartment building.

  “This is where you live?” Minerva asked. “Looks nice.”

  “It isn’t. It’s an old building and I live in an expensive coffin. But it’s what I could afford.”

  Cant hesitated at the base of the stairs.

  “Coming?” Oliver asked.

  “No. These places disturb me.”

  “You mean… buildings?”

  “It’s unnatural. You southerners mock us for the way we live north of the Ailings and then build your own mountains and live inside of them. I can see enemies approach better from here.”

  “His people aren’t fond of enclosures,” Minerva said. Unless she was Atha when she said it, which was entirely possible.

  “And elves prefer trees. They hide their discomfort better is all.”

  “Especially when they’re wearing cursed objects and the only available sorc
erer wants to go inside,” Minerva said.

  “We’ll be right out,” Oliver said, “don’t vanish.”

  “You think I would know how?”

  “I think people have been vanishing a lot lately around here, so don’t do that.”

  The inside looked no different than the last time Oliver was there, which was refreshing. No lights, though, and that was a little annoying, because he’d lost the light he’d been using for the past couple of genres. What they had to navigate by was the soft glow from Koestler’s cell phone and the blinking electronics on the bomb. This was enough, but only because he already knew the way.

  Six flights up creaky stairs was a little unnerving. He was on edge, and not sure if that was a residue of the ghost story he’d just survived—the building still felt haunted—or a component of his new ultra-competence. He thought it was probably the second thing, and wished he had a gun in his hand.

  They were too exposed.

  But they got to the door okay. He’d changed outfits two or three times by now, and wasn’t entirely in charge of those wardrobe swaps, so it was a nice surprise when the key to the place was still in his pocket where it was supposed to be.

  “Prepare to be not impressed,” he said, opening the apartment door. They stepped in.

  “All right,” she said. “I’m not impressed.”

  “Told you.”

  “I’m kidding. It’s dark and I can’t see anything. But what’s that smell?”

  “I don’t really know. Laundry, probably. I don’t have any food in here. It always smells like that.”

  “I’m glad Cant stayed outside. My senses appear to be heightened when I’m around him.”

  “Well, you are an elf.”

  “Not right now. And when did you start talking about this stuff like it was perfectly normal?”

  “It’s not normal, darling, it’s insane. But I’m gonna keep moving forward. No sin in keeping alive.”

  “I think you like this version of yourself a little too much, Oliver. Meanwhile, I went from warrior to damsel in distress. If we survive this, remind me to be mad at you about that.”

  “You can’t hold me accountable for a popular trope.”

  “Sure I can. You had a problem with every other cliché, but not this one?”

  “Clichés and tropes aren’t the same thing.”

  “Take that up with Wilson. I just want this bomb off, thank you. And maybe to not be called sweetheart and babe quite as often.”

  The laptop was on the mattress, where he left it. He opened it up, which bathed the room in a healthy glow. He used that to find a proper flashlight.

  “This is the whole apartment?” Minerva asked. “There isn’t another room on the side somewhere?”

  “This is the entire place. Enjoy the spacious accommodations. Especially the palatial mattress on the floor that’s also the full extent of the seating possibilities.”

  “It’s body odor.”

  “What is?”

  “The smell. You don’t go to the laundry enough.”

  “That’s true. Look, if I knew today was the day I’d be bringing you here, I’d have picked up and fumigated.”

  “Oh, but you planned on bringing me here?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a plan. An aspiration.”

  She laughed.

  “I think I probably would have come.”

  It wasn’t easy to tell in the light, but he thought he was getting a good smile from her. Given there was hardly any standing room, she was smiling at a time when they were right on top of one another, which resulted in a brief, electric frisson that Oliver was sure he wasn’t imagining.

  “Look, I would love to talk about any other plans you had for me, Ollie, but I’m going to need to change into something more comfortable first. Something less explosive.”

  “Right.”

  He returned his attention to the laptop, sat down in his usual spot and began typing commands. Minerva stood around awkwardly for a few seconds before deciding to sit as well.

  “So how do you have Internet access?” she asked. “Without any power?”

  “The laptop has a battery, and I’m magic.”

  “No, I mean really.”

  “All right, battery power, and the need for expository information to be obtained at this point in the story.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious. We don’t have a story to follow here, but every story has beats it’s gotta hit. Right now, I need to know more about Lot Forty-Two, so here we are.”

  “I don’t know how you’re going to get anything with only that piece of information.”

  “Oh, I have more than that.”

  He was actually just entering commands into a search engine, which was the same thing anyone with basic web access and a little free time could do. He expected to hit a firewall at some point that would require a more robust skillset, but that hadn’t happened yet.

  “Like what?”

  “Koestler wants it, and he said it’s related to the government in some way, so now I’m looking for Lot Forty-Two plus U.S. Government. I also know it’s related to a program that suffered some kind of accident: a fire. People were killed. I think the accident and the deaths were both classified, and I think the bodies were buried underneath the old department store downtown.”

  “Daniel’s? That’s been there forever.”

  “The building has, but the basement and the subway connection only dates back to… 1972, it looks like.”

  “So a local top secret government program from the late 1960’s that ended with a fire and a mass grave. In the city, somehow.”

  “It’s not that crazy. The first nuclear reactor was built in a sub-basement in Chicago. And part of that land… There.”

  “What?”

  He turned the laptop so she could see his screen. She didn’t look as impressed as he expected her to be.

  “I don’t get it,” she said.

  It was a city map, circa 1967. One block from the corner on which Daniel’s sat was a square building identified as a student center for the university. A subway station existed in that spot now.

  “I don’t think that was really a student center,” Oliver said.

  He called up images from the street for the same era, revealing a brick building with a glassed entrance and no windows.

  “I agree that that’s the most uninviting student center I’ve ever seen, but this is pretty thin,” Minerva said.

  “The building burned down a year after that photo.”

  “Okay, now I’m with you. What happened?”

  Oliver scrolled through a couple of pages. There was only so much more he was going to be able to get from public resources, though.

  “The papers at the time have almost no details. It happened in the summer, during a renovation, and that’s all. Nobody hurt, infrastructure damaged, the school sold the property to the city rather than rebuild. That’s it.”

  There was an icon on his desktop he had never noticed before: the silhouette of an owl. Seeing that made everything fall into place.

  “He needs my access,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  Oliver ignored her, because time was now very important. He had to know what Lot 42 was and then get out. He clicked on the icon.

  A screen he’d never seen before—and yet was somehow intimately familiar with—popped up. It was a security portal for a firewall, and it needed a user ID and a password. Putting zero thought into it, he let his fingers type whatever they wanted.

  The user ID that worked was OrsonDTN. The password was fifteen digits, and he entered it so fast he couldn’t have repeated it at gunpoint.

  Just keep rolling with it, he told himself.

  The portal led to a list of files.

  “Ollie.”

  “Hang on.”

  There were dozens of file names. He didn’t have the time to go through every one of them to figure out where he was supposed to be looking.
On top of that, this was the first stage of access, and if what he wanted was hidden here, it was poorly hidden indeed. He scanned the page until he discovered an Archives link. From there, he found the right era—they were split into five year chunks—where he was greeted with a collection of random character file titles, half with RESTRICTED flags on them.

  “It’s just that we’re running out of time,” Minerva said. “The bomb, and all that.”

  “Oh, right. Don’t worry, it’s not a real bomb.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “About a minute.”

  The random character file titles were all four letters long. His first thought was that he was looking at DNA coding, but there was far too great a variety of letters in use for it to be something like that. Then he saw what he wanted. The file was called TAWU.

  “Tenth Avenue Writers Underground,” he muttered.

  “Oliver!”

  “What?”

  “How do you know it isn’t a real bomb? This is kind of important, so I’d like to understand your reasoning, if that’s okay.”

  “Our time was up thirty seconds ago, that’s how I know. Now give me a second.”

  He clicked on the TAWU file, and was greeted with another password portal. This one required a four-digit code. After trying TAWU—which unsurprisingly did not work—he thought about it for a few seconds, and then tried Wilson and Minerva’s condo number.

  The file opened. He began reading.

  Lot 42 was the name of the most successful—and last—trial run in an experiment in remote viewing: Project Wise Eyes. It was similar to the MK Ultra experiments the CIA ran, except the subjects in these tests were chemically induced into a state which allowed them to remotely view things.

  These experiments worked, or so the team running it thought. The test subjects were able to report back with accurate information, providing details they couldn’t possibly have known. Better, the formula could work on anybody: the government didn’t need someone who already had psychic powers. They could give psychic powers to anyone, temporarily, under extremely controlled conditions.

  Things started to go wrong when one subject—a young woman whose picture happened to be in the file—reported that not only was she able to see remotely, she was able to move things around remotely. It got worse from there. Others soon found they could not just move things, they could alter the nature of things: suspend the laws of physics, transform people into dogs, and so on. It was fantastic, and impossible, and entirely unverifiable. In the real world, nobody ended up being turned into dogs, gravity was never suspended temporarily, or any of that.