Nine-Tenths

by Meira Pentermann

  “Medic,” he yelled, his voice rough and unsure.

  Leonard moved his eyes from the lifeless woman’s face to a note lying on her keyboard.

  YOU THINK WE’RE STUPID!

  He gazed at the note, the last words of a woman pushed past the point of no return.

  Several paramedics rushed though the cubicle maze. Entering Sandy’s workspace the EMTs quickly checked her vitals. “No pulse,” one man said while another attempted to usher Leonard from the area. One paramedic started CPR. Eventually, Leonard capitulated and staggered back to his own cubicle.

  As the morning dragged on, images of Sandy’s head rolling back zoomed to the forefront of Leonard’s mind every time he tried to focus on something else. He wished he could call Alina, but even if he felt it safe to share, which he did not, what good would it do? It wouldn’t bring Sandy back. It wouldn’t comfort Alina, and it might even distract her from their important lunchtime experiment. No. The idea was foolish. For now, the anguish of Sandy’s pointless death was his alone to bear.

  The mood among his coworkers seemed to follow a similar roller coaster pattern. For the first hour, panic and shock electrified the air. Slowly, as people stopped talking and returned to their desks, a somber atmosphere of gloom settled on the Stasi crew. It was unusually quiet, although fingers clanked sharply on keyboards in an otherwise eerie pocket of stillness.

  After confirming that Dickens’ lunch hour was also at noon, Leonard spent ten minutes methodically tearing Sandy’s yellow note into tiny, unrecoverable bits. He hated to destroy it, because her words soothed his spirit. The-Leonard-that-came-before might not have been such a conformist asshole after all. Sandy had picked up on something. Eventually, Leonard allowed himself to be comforted by that notion.

  Glancing at his watch for the nineteenth time, Leonard was pleased to see the numbers 11:43. Seventeen minutes until lunch. In about ten, his coworkers would become restless and move around in their cubicles anticipating the break. As the clock ticked slowly toward noon, the somber atmosphere lightened somewhat. Folks were eager to get out of the stuffy hanger and make their way to the corridors where the atmosphere was less dreary.

  Leonard decided to simply stay put, allow the others to file out past him, and act as if he was just finishing up. McGinnis was already miffed, so he probably wouldn’t stop by to check on him. At five minutes to twelve, as predicted, Stasi project employees made their way to the elevators. Leonard remained in his seat, arranging papers and desktop supplies — his stapler, tape dispenser, and various-sized sticky note tablets. The room had nearly cleared out by 11:59. Leonard quickly logged onto Dickens’ computer. He double-checked Max’s WLN record and found that it was far more extensive than his Priority Target summary. It contained pages of notes — very specific notations about grocery and errand trips; number of hours inside and outside of the home; intimate details Leonard refused to read for fear that Alina’s name might appear among them. Max was being monitored day and night. The notes spanned a little over a year.

  “Shit,” Leonard whispered as he fumbled for the thumb drive and downloaded the detailed information.

  Then he headed over to WLN02 and looked up Alina Marsh-Tramer. The red tracking button ominously appeared on the screen. Leonard was just about to click the mouse when a gruff voice behind him caught him entirely by surprise.

  “Lunch, Tramer.”

  Leonard quickly switched off his monitor and swiveled to face the intruder. The dowdy break enforcer. “I’m staying at my desk,” he said coolly.

  “Sorry, but that’s not allowed.”

  Leonard leapt from his chair and shot across the cubicle. “Not allowed?” he screamed inches from her face. “Not allowed? Who are you to tell me I’m not allowed to eat at my desk?”

  Alarmed, the woman took a step back. Then she scowled and repeated, “It’s not allowed. Let’s go.”

  Worked up in a frenzy, Leonard screeched like an animal, “I’ll be damned if you’re going tell me when and where I can eat my lunch.”

  She smirked. “Well, be damned then.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The woman glowered, refusing to give ground.

  “My assistant committed suicide this morning. Suicide! I found her dead body, slumped there in her chair, and I sure as fucking hell am not going to spend the next half-hour in the presence of vapid people munching on stale sandwiches. I’m staying. At. My. Desk. Are we clear?”

  Flustered, the woman stepped back. Her jaw dropped. Clearly, she never had to deal with the my assistant committed suicide situation in the past. In addition, she did not appear to have read about such a scenario in her union handbook. Rather than continue along this dangerous road with Leonard, the woman decided to retreat, pivoting abruptly and disappearing from view.

  Leonard took a deep breath and returned to his seat. 12:04 p.m.

  He turned his monitor back on and hit Alina’s tracking button. A map of the hospital district popped up on the screen. A small red dot pulsed in the middle of a building just south of Children’s Hospital.

  The Neil Nelson Medical Center had been the newest and finest private hospital in Colorado…before the Feds took it over and turned it into the dysfunctional operation Alina had described to him.

  Leonard tapped his finger on the desk waiting for something to happen. He moved his mouse around absentmindedly. As the stationary dot continued to pulse, Leonard noticed something he had missed the first time he visited the tracking system. In the bottom right corner, the outline of a battery appeared to be nearly full.

  A minute later the dot slowly moved north. Leonard’s heart raced. He felt almost joyful. Here was his beloved wife reduced to a pulsing dot on a map, and all he could do was smile. Life. Death. Possibility. It all came together in this moment…watching his wife’s dot amble north making its way toward Fitzsimmons Drive.

  As promised the dot stopped in the northwest corner of Fitzsimmons and Seventeenth where several roads merged in front of the Fitzsimmons Army Medical Center. Presumably Alina was stashing her ID pass in a safe place.

  Leonard held his breath. The dot remained in the same place. Fifteen seconds. Thirty. Sixty. Two minutes. Leonard had to suppress a shout of joy as he pushed his chair away from the desk and spun three times. He looked at his watch and examined the screen again. Nearly three minutes.

  “Yes,” he said, clenching one fist and pulling it into his chest.

  All the emotions of the previous two days — thoughts he pushed down, fears he refused to face, passions he dared not pursue — they all scrambled to emerge as a wave of relief overcame Leonard. He confronted images of Sandy’s lifeless form, a girl lost before her time. Anger, shock, and sadness colored the morning, but now Leonard had hope. Tears formed at the edges of his eyes.

  The experiment proved what they suspected, what they dreamed. The tracking transmitters were in their ID passes. Thankfully, Max was creating new identities for them. Clean IDs with no chips. The Tramers would escape and make a new life for themselves in Grand Junction — a free society that the Stasi Satellites and the Watcher Listening Network could not infiltrate. Leonard spun around in his chair once more.

  As he settled back at his desk, the most dreadful thing confronted his eyes.

  No.

  The dot was moving. North. He zoomed in. Weaving in and around the walking paths at the Fitzsimmons Army Medical Center, the dot gained ground at an admirable speed. Alina was walking. And the WLN was following her every step.

  It confirmed the possibility that he deeply feared, but dare not voice. The transmitter was not in her ID pass.

  It was in Alina.

  Chapter Nineteen

  For the duration of the lunch hour, Leonard exhausted his brain trying to hack into the tracking software. He had hoped to find a way to disable the tracking links to Alina, himself, and Natalia. Unless someone was looking, he reasoned, they wouldn’t notice an inoperative tracking number. Nevertheless, his efforts were in vain.
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br />   As Leonard’s coworkers began filing in, he slammed his fist on the counter and then shook it in the air to dull the pain. Time to abort. Mark Dickens would presumably be returning to his station any minute. Leonard exited the WLN system hastily and returned to the SSP01 menu page.

  No one stopped by his desk, not even McGinnis, so Leonard stealthily downloaded Max’s Priority Target file on the thumb drive. He slipped the drive into the side of his sock. Uncomfortable at first, the little device eventually warmed up and became virtually unnoticeable.

  For the duration of the afternoon, Leonard tried to keep his mind busy by perusing the Priority Target reports and examining the Beta Site data. If the Beta Project proceeded as outlined, a half dozen satellites would be tested for six months. Pending success, the whole fleet would be up in operation in about a year.

  Contemplating the complexity of the situation, he wondered if his family would ever find the opportunity to flee Denver. He looked at his watch. Quarter to four. Another tedious hour to go. Leaning back in his chair, Leonard gazed at the ceiling and sighed.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Startled, Leonard jolted and spun around. Reilly, the young man in a gray uniform who had escorted him to Carlyle’s office yesterday, stood nervously near the edge of the cubicle.

  At the end of his rope, Leonard had no patience for Reilly or Carlyle. Feeling as if he were a tagged bird, the world around him loomed like a prison. Breathing deeply did little to relieve his anxiety; the air felt hot and oppressive as it passed through his lungs. “What?” he snapped.

  “Commander Carlyle wants to see you, sir.”

  “That’s just great,” he mumbled under his breath. “Now, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Leonard rose, pushing his chair back so it smacked into his desk.

  “Would you like me to escort you again, sir?”

  “No. I can manage on my own, Reilly.”

  ***

  After locking the door, Carlyle strutted to his desk and sat on the edge. He folded his arms and stared at Leonard, who sat in an armless wooden chair a few feet away. In this arrangement, the commander towered over his subordinate. Leonard shifted in discomfort.

  Impassive and appearing to have all the time in the world, Carlyle merely stared, making Leonard more uncomfortable by the minute. Eventually, Leonard concluded that silence was just another game — a game of intimidation. Focusing on the absurdity of the strategy, Leonard resolved to wait it out and remain aloof. If Carlyle wants to play, let’s play, he thought as he adjusted his posture to mirror the commander’s. Arms folded, left foot on the right knee, Leonard hardened his face and glared at the commander.

  After several minutes, Carlyle smirked. He tipped his head to one side and regarded Leonard with a hint of amusement. “Kind of cocky for a son-of-a-bitch who’s locked in a room with the most powerful man at this base.”

  Speaking as dispassionately as possible, Leonard replied, “You summoned me. I presume you have something you wish to discuss?”

  “I do.”

  “Then please, go ahead. I can’t read your mind.”

  The commander stood and took a step forward. Leonard craned his neck to maintain eye contact while projecting a sense of detachment. Unable to rile Leonard, Carlyle commenced pacing slowly and confidently.

  “People are concerned, Leonard.”

  “Are they?” Leonard said, a thinly veiled mockery in his voice.

  “Shouldn’t they be?”

  “You tell me.”

  Carlyle laughed. He ceased pacing and leaned against his desk. “My, my, my. You are going to make this so—very—easy.”

  Leonard’s heart skipped a beat. He cleared his throat, hoping his voice would not betray his fear. “What is that, Chris?”

  Carlyle glowered. “Let’s stick with commander, shall we, Tramer?”

  Leonard nodded meekly. For the first time since he resolved to stare Carlyle down he glanced away. Clearly the faux friendship between them had deteriorated. Furthermore, it was evident that Carlyle was on to something. Only an hour ago, Leonard had wanted to lay low and find a way to turn off his tracking link. Now he was mouthing off to the commander. Things were not improving.

  What is going on?

  Did security discover Leonard hacking into the WLN System? They should have caught that yesterday. Maybe they did. Or was it Sandy? Did they think he had a connection to her death? It could be any number of things. Did they catch him downloading data for Max? Leonard resisted the urge to feel his left sock. At this juncture, there were so many possibilities, his head spun. Hoping to take control of the conversation, Leonard switched tactics. Aloof and cocky wasn’t going to save him. He needed to find out how much they knew.

  Staring at the floor, Leonard spoke softly. “I didn’t know Sandy Little was so messed up. I would have reported her if—”

  “Fragile women are of no concern to me. Honestly, I couldn’t give a damn about Sandy Little.” He rolled his eyes.

  Taken aback, Leonard said, “That’s a little harsh—”

  “You will do well to address me in a civil tone, Tramer. You need me. I’m the only friend you’ve got right now.”

  Friend? What is he talking about?

  Confident that the issue, whatever it was, had nothing to do with Sandy Little, Leonard considered the other possibilities. He could not approach any of the topics without giving Carlyle a lead, so he remained quiet, praying that the commander would let something slip.

  Carlyle resumed pacing. “I got several calls about your lunch outburst.”

  “Outburst? Oh, that stupid break enforcer.”

  “Marge Simpleton.”

  Leonard shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “I guess I kind of did take it out on her. I mean, she wouldn’t leave me alone. After Sandy…you know, I didn’t have much of an appetite.”

  A sly grin formed on Carlyle’s face. “You’re exhibiting rather CARS-like behavior.” As he spoke, he stared unblinking, watching for any sign of disquiet.

  At that moment, the commander surely was not disappointed, for a bead of sweat rolled down Leonard’s right temple. Trembling — he prayed not visibly — Leonard tallied the bits of information. Like a physical blow to the gut, it hit him. It made absolutely no difference what Carlyle and his boys saw or knew. All that mattered was that they suspected something was amiss. Perhaps they had nothing but a lunch tantrum, a feeble hunch. But that was enough. Carlyle could send him to the DOH to be retested for CARS. No one would bat an eye after his unruly outburst.

  The commander was telling the truth.

  He is my only friend right now.

  Leonard took a deep, steadying breath. “Sir, I am so sorry that I frightened Ms…Simpleton. I really ought to apologize.”

  “No need.”

  “But I—”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Tramer.” Carlyle marched forward, his finger pointing in accusation. “You’re up to something. You’re flustered. Nervous. Angry.”

  “It’s—”

  “And don’t tell me you’re in mourning over the Little woman. I know damn well you don’t give a shit about anyone in that department. You’ve made that abundantly clear on a number of occasions.”

  Leonard bit his lip and closed his eyes.

  “I used to find that an admirable trait. Figured you’d keep an eye on those morons. No personal loyalties.” He raised one eyebrow. “But you’ve been spooked by something these past few weeks. I used to think Alina was the weak link, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “You really think I have CARS?” Leonard blurted, testing whether or not Carlyle knew about the CARS scam.

  The commander guffawed.

  He knows.

  “Don’t tempt me, Tramer. All I have to do is push a button.”

  Leonard’s stomach turned. It was all over. There was nowhere to run. Even if he found a place to run, the Feds would track him in a matter of seconds. His world was collapsing around him and there was n
othing he could do. He could not save Natalia from the rape that awaited her on Friday. He couldn’t whisk Alina away. No Grand Junction. No free society. Only the infirmary.

  A sinister smile formed on the commander’s lips. “You seem a little shook up there, Tramer. Feeling okay?”

  Regaining his composure, Leonard replied, “Of course.”

  Carlyle nodded. “So why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  Leonard turned his palms upward, indicating confusion.

  “What are you two planning?” Carlyle barked.

  “Us two?”

  “You and Alina. What are you up to? You took a walk last night, very late.” Carlyle put two fingers over his lips and smiled. “Visited the Guilder Project. Very odd for someone who has barely touched his wife in years.”

  This remark sent Leonard over the edge. They actually kept track of how many times he had sex with his wife? He leapt out of his chair, fists clenched. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Carlyle laughed. “Relax, relax. The Watchers don’t waste time with that.” He cleared his throat. “At least, they have the decency not to log such details on their reports. I was just testing you. Nice reaction. I kind of made the presumption since you haven’t had a nice thing to say about her since I’ve met you.”

  Leonard sat down.

  “Except yesterday,” the commander said. “When I spoke to you, you kind of defended her, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t hate my wife.”

  “Of course. Of course.” He frowned. “As a matter of fact, I think you like her very much.”

  “Is that a crime now?”

  “It is if you intend to betray us.”

  “How?” Leonard pressed, hoping to discern what it was they suspected. Did they know about the escape plan? “Has Alina ever been accused of traitorous activity? If she has, it’s news to me. And I would think a friend like yourself would give me a heads-up about such a matter.”