Unfiction

by Gene Doucette

  Despite this, all of the remote viewers insisted their experiences were real. The conclusion of the head scientist attached to the project (his name was redacted, even at this level) was that the test subjects were indeed remotely viewing something, but it wasn’t the real world. It was some other place.

  It read like bad science fiction, which a part of Oliver’s brain decided it probably was. At the same time, he couldn’t ignore the fact that he knew the face of the woman in the file. It was the ghost in Mad Maggie’s. It was also, somehow, Minerva.

  “All right,” Minerva said. She’d been hyperventilating for the past minute or so, as Ollie read, and she expected to die. “How did you know it wasn’t real?”

  “Koestler’s too smart. If that’s a real bomb, he put the power into my hands, since I’m the one holding the Lot Forty-Two samples, and he doesn’t want it blown up. He’d like me to think this is some kind of world-ending virus to appeal to my sense of duty, but really he just wanted me to look it up to find out what it really is.”

  “You mean, what you’re doing right now?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. I have access to information he doesn’t have and he’s tricked me into using it. Which means somewhere in that vest you have on is a spybot that just airhopped onto my computer’s signal and recorded my keystrokes.”

  “If you know all this, why did you do it?”

  “Because I still had to know what the formula really was. Besides, I had nothing better to do; we’re already cornered.”

  The cell phone rang. Ollie answered, and put it on speaker again.

  “How’d I do?”

  “Very good,” Koestler said.

  “He’s in the building?” Minerva asked, quietly. Oliver nodded.

  “Now, I would ask you to kindly deliver the samples to me, and promise to let you live if you did this thing, but we both know this is a waste of breath. I am not letting you exit alive.”

  “You’re nothing if not an honest man.”

  “I would be hurt if you thought otherwise.”

  There was a small black steamer trunk sitting under the front window. Oliver had been using it as a table to hold up a houseplant that had perished sometime in the past year. He kept watering it anyway, in part because he thought it would eventually recover, and in part because he didn’t feel like throwing it away and finding a new plant to kill.

  What was interesting was that he could have sworn the thing holding the plant up was an actual table, not a trunk.

  “So now what, Koestler?”

  “Now you stay where you are. I’ll be along presently.”

  The line went dead.

  Oliver shoved the plant aside, and opened the trunk.

  “I hope you’re keeping track of this, because I’m lost,” Minerva said.

  “I am. Let’s get that vest off of you. He can still use it to track our movements.”

  Inside the trunk was a layer of neatly folded clothing, which should have been a giveaway that something was amiss inasmuch as Oliver never folded anything. He lifted the clothes aside to reveal a much more interesting layer. Specifically: a bulletproof vest, a Glock G29, and a toolkit.

  He removed the toolkit first.

  “Step over here,” he said.

  The bomb vest was locked to her with a high-tension cable wire usually seen attached to bike locks. It didn’t look like something Oliver could cut through quickly without a bolt-cutter, and he didn’t have one of those. He did have a lockpick, though, and the padlock holding the whole thing together looked pretty basic. That could mean it was a trick.

  With the flashlight, he examined the vest closely, top to bottom, on both sides.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “A failsafe.”

  “I thought you said it isn’t a bomb.”

  “It’s not, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing lethal about it. He can kill you without blowing us both up.”

  “I continue to not like this in the slightest.”

  “Noted.”

  There wasn’t anything else there. He saw everything one would expect from a live bomb, which only meant that the wiring and electronics were real. If the C-4 bricks were fake, it wouldn’t matter.

  Oliver got to work on the lock, which was in the center of her chest. This was slightly awkward, but only slightly.

  “You’re sure there aren’t any other surprises?” she asked.

  “Pretty sure, yeah. You want me to cut the red wire first?”

  “Or the blue.”

  “I could start to cut the red wire, change my mind at the last second, and cut the blue. That always seems to work.”

  “Funny.”

  “Then I could exhale when the bomb doesn’t go off, and say something clever.”

  The lock opened.

  “There we are,” he said, pulling the padlock off. “You can remove that now.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Pretty sure. I mean, there’s a chance this is a misdirect and I’m not actually the hero, in which case the bomb will go off and the real hero will be whoever turns up to avenge my death, but I don’t think this is one of those.”

  “Jesus, Ollie, what if it’s just real life? Bombs actually go off in real life.”

  “True. Take it off anyway. Put this on instead.”

  He tossed her the bulletproof vest.

  “It may be a little big,” he added.

  “What about one for you?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He checked the Glock. It was loaded, as he expected it would be.

  Minerva took off the bomb vest. They did not die. She slipped on the bulletproof one.

  “Now?” she asked.

  Now you get taken hostage, he thought.

  “We try and get out of here alive,” he said. “Let’s move.”

  Ollie cracked open the door. There was good reason to think the hallway was clear, only because the building had eight floors. Whatever tracker happened to be in that bomb vest, it wouldn’t be all that helpful when it came to identifying the correct floor. GPS is great with north-south-east-west, and not so good with up-down.

  This was assuming Koestler had tech that was functioning during a citywide blackout. Since his cell worked (as did Ollie’s laptop) he imagined this was a good assumption.

  He considered using a hand mirror to check the hallway more thoroughly, but he had no mirror and the hall had no light, so it would have been a fruitless exercise. He did have a flashlight now, but that was going to end up being more useful when it came to getting shot at than it would if he were the one doing the shooting. Better to acclimate his eyes as well as possible and keep the flashlight for emergencies.

  When they came out of the apartment, it was in a crouch. Ollie went first, on his knees, checking both ends of the corridor. He crawled out to the opposite wall and then waved Minerva out. No guns went off, and the floor was quiet. He got to his feet and helped her to hers.

  “We make for the stairs,” he whispered, “and get you out of here.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t leave until Koestler does. That’s just how this has to work.”

  She looked like she was ready to argue, but decided this was not the best time to do that.

  They made it to the landing, when the floor erupted. Gunfire, from above. Oliver more or less expected it; he was already pushing Minnie back against the wall of the stairwell before the first bullet landed.

  It wasn’t the kind of place that lent it self naturally to clean sight lines. He knew it, and so did Koestler.

  “That doesn’t sound like your Walther PP, buddy,” Oliver shouted. “Did you finally retire that thing?”

  “I’m afraid I lost it when dying in Singapore,” Koestler said. He was one flight up. “A shame. But, sentimentality is not best expressed in small arms, I’ve decided.”

  Ollie stepped out and fired twice in roughly the correct direction. He stepped back again, and waite
d.

  “You’ve held onto the Glock, though,” Koestler said. His voice was higher up now. “Perhaps your perspective on sentiment differs.”

  “I just like the gun.”

  Ollie moved to the base of the stairs leading up. The way looked clear.

  “Go down,” he whispered to Minerva. “Get to Cant, I’ll be out when I’m done.”

  “Come with me!”

  “I have to finish this.”

  “No you don’t. You can just…”

  She gestured rather than finishing the thought, which was fine. The gesture meant surrender, but what she meant by it was, you don’t have to follow this plot if you don’t want to. He was pretty sure she was wrong.

  Koestler fired once, a shot that came nowhere near anybody, but caused both Ollie and Minnie to duck defensively. Then they heard him running.

  “He’s heading for the roof,” Oliver said. “I have to stop him. Go, get out of here!”

  He didn’t wait around to see her head down; Koestler was getting away.

  Not this time, he thought. Not again.

  He reached the next floor and pushed up against the wall in anticipation of gunshots which never came. Then on to the next flight, and then to the top, and the doorway leading to the roof.

  The building had a flat rooftop that was officially off-limits to the tenants, and was unofficially the best spot to get a suntan in the summertime. It was possible to go from this roof to either of the adjacent buildings by jumping a five-foot gap. That made it a viable escape route, and a sensible option for an international mercenary.

  Oliver knew the roof well. He knew as soon as he exited the door that he was vulnerable to an attack from the side of the door and from above the exit. Other than that there was no place to hide. So, when he pushed through the door he checked both positions.

  He’d miscalculated, in two ways. First, Koestler wasn’t there, and neither was anyone else. Second, Koestler didn’t mean to use the rooftops to escape. There was a helicopter parked on the top of an adjacent building.

  He swept the whole rooftop just to be sure. Cigarette butts and seagull poop, a couple of empty beer bottles and an old tube of suntan lotion. No Russian.

  He wondered how it was possible for him to have gotten to the roof first, then he heard a creak. The door to the stairs was opening.

  Ollie spun around, and trained his gun on the opening.

  “What, did you stop for the bathroom?” Oliver asked. But Koestler didn’t emerge from the doorway: Minerva did.

  “I told you…”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She looked frightened, which he realized was caused by the Smith & Wesson pointed at the back of her head.

  “So eager you were to catch me, you ran right past, old friend,” Koestler said. “What a tragedy, your young lady elected to follow you up.”

  The Russian wrapped an arm around Minerva’s neck and pushed the gun barrel against her temple. This was hardly the first time he’d picked up a human shield in his travels, evidently.

  Koestler was a hard man. He had thin, grey-white hair atop a square block of a head that looked as if it had been chiseled. Every scar and wrinkle looked earned, and his cobalt eyes looked like they belonged to someone ready to tell you about every one of them. He was dressed in a black turtleneck and a brown jacket, as if he’d only just stepped off of a Russian sub from thirty years past. He looked like the kind of man people had to come up with a plan to deal with. He was bad news.

  “Why don’t you let her go?” Oliver said. “I have Lot Forty-Two. It’s yours.”

  “Yes, we will get to that. You read the file, did you not? Tell me, do you know how they shut down this Project Wise Eyes?”

  “The fire.”

  “Oh, yes, the fire. But that’s such an understatement. I will read the documents later, at my leisure, once you are dead but before I sell the contents of that entire database to some extremely motivated parties with which I am familiar. My information comes from a jocular scientist who had no reason to lie after all the torture. This fire, you see, it came only after the test subjects stopped needing doses of the compound. Now, I admit the man who told me this was in a tremendous amount of pain, but he swears that things began happening around the facility. Little things at first, but then… large things. Entire doorways replaced by walls. Objects levitating. Hamburgers lowing like cattle.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I thought so as well! But it was a string I had to pull. Now, I feel it is far less ridiculous. Now I believe it is true. And the fire is the worst part. For when it became clear they could no longer control the test subjects, the military—your government—decided to liquidate them. Twenty men and women, in twenty separate rooms, each dosed with Lot Forty-Two, and sent on some mission, just as they had been every other time. It put them in something like a coma, I’m told. Only, on this occasion the dose was laced with a poison. None of them would awaken, and to make certain of that, they sealed up the building and burned the bodies right where they lay.”

  “Oh, god,” Minerva said quietly.

  “Yes indeed,” Koestler said. “I wonder, what do you suppose happens to you if someone kills your body while you are not inhabiting it? Perhaps you know, Orson?”

  You get angry ghosts, Oliver thought.

  “Sounds like a fairy tale, Koestler,” he said. “But if you want to test it out yourself, here you go.”

  He held up the Lot 42 tin.

  “Just put it on the ground, and kick it aside. I’ll collect it once I’m done with you.”

  Minnie looked like she was about ready to try something. She was gesturing with her hand, out of sight of Koestler. She was holding up three fingers.

  Ollie knew the trick. She’d count down to one and then drop, or head-butt Koestler, or elbow him in the groin, and Oliver was supposed to shoot at the same time, all before the Russian had a chance to retaliate against either of them. It was a cool trick that worked great in the movies, the problem being that it wouldn’t work here. Their opponent was too well-trained.

  “Now place your gun on the ground as well, if you would please.”

  Oliver crouched down, and had just let go of his gun when Minerva reached her last finger. She went with the head-butt. It missed, because Koestler saw it coming and moved aside. She fell backwards a little, off-balance, before he caught her.

  “Such initiative!” he exclaimed. He spun her around and in a quick, and rather elegant maneuver, flung her right over the side of the building. Ollie had his gun again by the time Koestler righted himself.

  Koestler fired, but at the spot Oliver no longer occupied. Ollie dove to his left, came up on one knee, and fired a round into the Russian’s right shoulder. Koestler’s second shot went wide, and there wasn’t a third, because he needed the shoulder in order to fire the gun.

  “Now we’re done, you son of a bitch,” Oliver said.

  “I don’t think we are.”

  “Oliver, help me!” Minerva cried. She hadn’t gone all the way off the roof; he could see her hand on the edge.

  Distracted, he didn’t see Koestler drop down and grab a handful of roof gravel until that gravel was being thrown in his face. The Russian charged, and nearly took them both over the side. Ollie landed hard on his back, his gun skittering out of reach.

  But Koestler only had one good arm. Oliver rabbit-punched him in the wounded shoulder and shoved him aside, and then scrambled over to Minnie. He reached down and caught her by the vest just a second or two before her grip gave out.

  “I have you,” he said.

  “You’re letting him get away!”

  He was indeed. Koestler scooped up the Lot 42 tin and ran to the helicopter, electing that over finding one of the guns and possibly giving Ollie another chance to kill him.

  The chopper’s rotors got going. It took longer to get Minerva back up onto the roof than it did for Koestler to get airborne.

  “I can’t believe you let him have it,” Min
erva said. “Isn’t that formula dangerous?”

  “It is, yes.”

  “So did you switch them out?”

  “No. That would have been a good idea, but I didn’t have a chance.”

  “All right, then why don’t you look worried?”

  The chopper reached an altitude sufficient to clear all the buildings in the vicinity, and then made a bee-line inbound.

  “There’s a no-fly zone over this city, remember?”

  “Sure but that was…”

  Then a set of lights swung into view behind Koestler: one yellow, one a little purplish. They split up and flanked the helicopter. A second later a pair of lightning bolts erupted from the alien devices, and the chopper looked like something caught in a Faraday cage. It dropped out of view.

  “Ouch,” Minnie said.

  A plume of smoke rose up from what had to be a pretty rough crash landing.

  “I guess he’s going to need us to pull him from the wreckage again,” Oliver said. “Good thing we’re going that way already.”

  “Are we?”

  “Sure. I know it’s hard to see with the power down, but he just crashed that thing right in front of Pallas. Hope you’re still up for dancing.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  For a Horse

  By the time they got back to the street to an impatient-looking Cant, Minerva had undergone a complete transformation, from hostage to elven warrior. There was even a quiver of arrows waiting for her on the stoop.

  Oliver wondered if she was even aware of the change. He was learning to roll with all of the shifts in their shared reality—which he was now actively questioning—but it was a self-aware shift. Deep down, he was still Oliver, whether he was also Orrin, or Opie, Osraic or Orson. Her shifts seemed far more thorough.