The general snaps upright. “It most certainly is impeccable! My record stands above all the rest.” He steps around the desk and slaps a hand to my shoulder. “I knew it all along, the resistance has agents lurking on the inside. And of course you would come to me, my allegiance to the Association is supreme, everybody knows that.”
“Absolutely, sir. Your accomplishments are impressive, and you have come highly recommended by parties who shall remain anonymous.”
Right, since they’re a product of my imagination.
He rattles my shoulder, then goes around the desk and reclines in his throne. “Very well. What assistance do you require?”
Wow, my load of bullshit worked. Now what?
“We require—”
What do we require? I look to Dave.
He says, “Identification, with unrestricted computer access.”
The general asks, “And whose identification do you expect me to hand over?”
Can’t he just make something up? I suppose not. Their adherence to procedure would never allow that. But there is a solution—the original plan, with one small tweak.
“Deceased identities,” I suggest.
Dave glances at me, confused. He doesn’t get it.
The general asks, “What good are deceased identities? When a soldier dies it’s a matter of public record.”
“But not for soldiers recently deceased and not yet recorded.”
Dave glances at me again, and he grows more perplexed. Hang in there, buddy, you’ll see where this leads.
“Now hold on there,” the general says. “What do you expect? Take a few good men and put them to death just so you can have their identities? I’m loyal to the cause, but that’s hardly fair to the men who have to give up a body. Let them die in battle, with honor. You won’t see any kind of help like that from me.”
“Oh no, sir, we have no intention of asking for any such thing. The deaths have already occurred, we only ask that you determine their numbers and issue replacement badges.”
Dave says, “With unrestricted computer access.”
The general is skeptical. “Are you suggesting fallen soldiers have not been recovered and fully documented? This is highly irregular. And how could you know of such a thing when I do not?”
Dave says, “We are from the Intelligence department.”
The general rises up with a scowl.
Dave!
I get between them. “What my associate means to say is, these are sensitive Intelligence matters. We could not disclose this information before meeting with you, I’m sure you understand.”
Locked on Dave, the general’s scowl slowly melts. “Oh, certainly.” He lowers back to his seat.
I explain, “Intelligence is aware of the deaths because we are responsible. A scout craft piloted by known sympathizers was intercepted and destroyed during the escape of a prominent member of the resistance. If you check your records, I’m sure you’ll find a scout craft unaccounted for.”
Dave glances at me and nearly foils his disguise when he brightens up—now he gets it.
The general turns to his computer, jabs keys, then studies the screen. “Why, yes,” he says. “A routine patrol reported rebels and engaged. That was their last transmission.”
“And they have not returned to base.”
“The record indicates missing in action, outcome undetermined.”
“I assure you, a record planted by Intelligence to conceal the hideous plot. No need for internal panic, you understand. The truth is, the pilots were aiding an escape, their craft was shot down, and Intelligence has them on ice. Our assignment is to discreetly assume their identities, infiltrate the network of sympathizers, and expose the traitors. All we require now are badges with the pilot’s identification numbers.”
Dave says, “With unrestricted computer access.”
I toss a stare his way, hoping he gets the drift. “Yes, and with the necessary access, as Agent Roberts has been so kind to mention more than once.”
“You two are from Intelligence,” the general says. “Why not make your own badges?”
A good point, and like all good points, it deserves an equally ridiculous reason to be overlooked. “You know as well as I, sir, that every time Intelligence does anything unusual, everybody gets nosey. We require the utmost discretion, Project X is top, top secret, I’m sure you understand. No one will suspect a thing if you issue replacement badges for pilots already under your command.”
Dave says, “With unrestricted computer access.”
This time I shoot a hard glare.
The general sinks inward, his gaze drifting across the desktop. He looks up at Dave, then me.
“Very well,” he says. “Let us ensure that Project X is a success.”
* * *
Following my instructions, the general modifies the computer record with further nonsense—the scout craft suffered an unfortunate accident, and the matter has been fully resolved. That should keep any nosey investigators off our trail. Next he takes our photos with a small camera that spits out self-adhesive holo-magnetic strips. From a drawer he pulls out two blank cards, applies the tape with our pictures, then swipes the fresh identification through a magnetic encoder next to his terminal.
He rises and hands over the badges. I clip mine to the lapel of my jacket.
“About the escape,” he says. “Has Intelligence made any progress?”
“Progress?” I ask.
“Have you recovered the subject?”
Is he referring to my escape?
“I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to discuss that, you understand of course, sensitive Intelligence matters. But please, any information you have to offer would be greatly appreciated.”
“I imagine it’s all in the report, but if I might add, a number of soldiers were injured, and I don’t mean just physically, the incident injured their dignity. I’m sure you know how bad morale destroys a unit. If you don’t mind my asking, some of us would like to participate in reprisals when the time comes.”
What the hell is he talking about? I didn’t realize Bobs had any dignity. Plenty of malice, sure, but not dignity.
“I will relay your request. I cannot make any promises, you understand, but please, tell me, what is this talk of dignity?”
He lowers to his chair. “I’m sure you’d agree, a soldier yourself. It’s awfully embarrassing when an entire unit gets its ass kicked by one girl.”
One girl? The entire room seems to glow brighter.
Except I’m supposed to know about this. I’ll blow it for sure if I get too curious.
“An unfortunate consequence,” I say, consoling the general as best I can while suppressing an overwhelming urge to ask for more. “Rest assured, she will be recovered soon, and your men’s dignity restored.”
“That’s right,” he grumbles. “After we beat her senseless and have our way with her.”
My arm flinches, my fist tightens. Adrenaline soars into my pounding heart. It takes all I have to keep from lunging over the desk and strangling the macho prick. If a glare alone could harness the rising emotion, the fireball unleashed would leave a bloody stain atop his headless neck.
Dave coaxes me back, the touch across my arm like an awakening hand, shaking loose a nightmare. And like a fading dream, the anger lingers, though reality bleeds through to remind—danger still exists. No mistakes. Stick to the plan. Not the time for revenge, not yet.
Dave takes over. “General Carver, sir, Special Agent Bob and I will need to excuse ourselves, if you don’t mind. Could you direct us to somewhere quiet with computer access?”
The general studies a desktop calendar. “Academy Training Room One is vacant today.” He looks up. “You should find no one there to disturb you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dave says. “And remember, speak to no one about our visit.”
“Consider it done.” The general stands and ceremoniously smacks his chest with a clenched fist. “Long live the As
sociation, Guardians of Order.”
* * *
Back in the hallway, Dave and I each breathe a sigh of relief—huge.
Dave asks, “What was all that nonsense?”
I can only shrug. “Raw instinct.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess. Man, that was great. You’re one hell of a bullshitter.”
“A product of stress, that’s all I can say.”
“And what happened at the end? You looked ready to crush the guy’s skull.”
“You heard what he said.”
“Yeah, but shit, man, I’ve never seen you so angry.”
“If they lay a hand on Christina, you’ll see a thousand times that, trust me.” Vengeance returns, just thinking about that sadistic bastard.
Dave silently watches as my fury rises to a boil, his stare growing fearful. “I believe it,” he says.
No—don’t be angry, I won’t be effective. Kill the creep later, after we complete the mission.
I ask, “And what was all that whining about computer access?”
“I didn’t want you to forget this time.”
“Forget what?”
He grins, and it reminds me of him posing as the bum under the bridge, except this time his gleaming teeth are intact. He waves his badge across my view. “How to find what you’re looking for.”
A young woman approaches, studying papers as she moves at a resolute stride, the snap of her heels growing louder. Great, just what I wasn’t looking for. We’ll be caught for sure if we talk to anyone else. Look away and let her walk on by.
Dave gets in her path. “Excuse me, miss.”
Dave!
She stops to offer her attention, and I stop breathing.
“I’m new here,” Dave says. “My first day in fact. Could you direct me to Academy Training Room One?”
“Sure,” she says, then turns halfway and points. “Section C. Take a right at the end of the hall, then a little farther, it’ll be on your left. There’s a sign, you can’t miss it.”
Amazing, he did it. Now if my frantic pulse would just settle down.
“Congratulations on being accepted,” she says. “The best of luck to you.” Then she becomes suspicious. “But come to think of it, there are no classes in room one today. Are you sure that’s right?”
“Did I say one? I mean two, I think. Sorry, I lost some of my paperwork, you know, the dog ate it.”
Like she’s really going to believe that. Then he smiles, like it’s supposed to be funny. What? She giggles.
“That’s just past room one,” she says. “You’ll see the signs.” She continues on her way, the snap of her heels fading.
Can Dave make anyone laugh? Perhaps, and that might be a good thing. I’ll need help laughing about it when we’re caught.
* * *
Dave opens the door and we slip into Academy Training Room One. The lights are off, but high along one wall, small windows let in enough daylight to navigate the quiet space. To my relief, the place is deserted. Each confrontation is only more tense than the last.
At the head of the class is a chalkboard and inactive video screen, and to one side is the instructor’s desk. The rest of the room is filled with long tables facing the chalkboard, and computer terminals spread across the tables, a personal station for each student.
I sit before one of the terminals, constructed of molded gray plastic that houses the keyboard and screen in a single case. Other than the keyboard, I see no other button or switch. I check the sides and back, and still find nothing.
“Where do you turn this thing on?”
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Dave says, pulling a chair closer to sit beside me. “I’m just a pilot. You’re the computer genius.”
“Me? What are you talking about?”
“You know, don’t you?”
“Sorry, Dave, this isn’t working.”
“Come on, Adam, you know all about this computer stuff, remember?”
I do? Matt’s the computer geek. But he’s no smarter than me, so maybe it’s true. What do I know about computers? I know they are binary, based on the states of on or off, akin to yes or no, the most complicated decision you could expect a machine to make. But when a stream of the simple decisions are aligned in precise order and executed at lightning speed, machines become capable of seemingly complex decisions, and equally complex tasks. It’s all an illusion of course, like a dream, where the unbelievable is taken for granted. An illusion we take for granted each time we use a computer, as miles of wire process instructions so quickly we mistake it for intelligence, or dismiss as magic beyond our grasp, when really, we should just be amazed that any of it is even possible, and the miracle actually works. But the question remains—how to turn it on. Unpowered, the miracle makes a good doorstop. In the top corner of the keyboard, one is unmarked, and set off from the others, as good a choice as any. My guess is correct. Like magic, the computer comes to life, whirring followed by faint clicking, and the screen displays a single line of text.
Swipe identification
“We already did,” Dave says.
“Did what?”
He tugs at the badge clipped to my jacket. “Swiped ID. You know, from the general.”
A small red light flashes near a slot along the top edge of the keyboard.
“Don’t be a moron, Dave.” He’s right about one thing—I’m the expert here. I unclip the badge, but is it safe to use? The general might have tricked us and created badges that sound an alarm once we use them. A chance we’ll have to take. I slide my badge through the slot, the red light changes to green, and no sirens wail, to my relief.
On the screen, a vertical strip is drawn down one side, where a series of buttons appear. Not real buttons, rather silly little pictograms. One is a red hexagon, like a stop sign. That must mean stop. Stop what though? We have to start something before we can stop it. Another looks like a man running. Below that is a bird, wings outstretched and something in its beak, could be a sheet of paper. Then an image of a man sitting down, legs folded. Who thought up all this crap? Near the bottom, the last pictogram resembles a bucket. Maybe that bucket of virtue I never found.
“Well?” Dave asks.
“Well what?”
“What makes it go?”
That’s what I’d like to know. I touch the on-screen buttons, but nothing happens. Of course—the screen is not touch-sensitive like our computers. This primitive design presents buttons as metaphors. Okay, I remember this. There’s another way, a metaphorical way to press the buttons.
“Why isn’t it working?” Dave asks.
A lone white arrow hovers in the center of the screen.
“It’s that arrow,” I say. “We have to move it over one of the buttons, then press it.”
“How?” he asks. “You just think about it?” He squints and grunts as if straining to send a telepathic command. Or having a tough time on the can. His eyes snap open and he gazes at the screen, searching for success. The little arrow hasn’t budged.
“You try it,” he says. “You’re better at that kind of thing.”
He’s not joking—he’s actually serious.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dave. Things don’t move just by thinking about it. They move by the rules of existence.” Thinking about it helps, sure, but thought must inspire physical action, the justification for an object’s movement.
“So enlighten me, oh wise one. What are these rules we must follow?”
“Simple,” I explain. “A device here somewhere controls that arrow, and we move it with our hand, dumb-ass.”
He reaches for a palm-sized orb on the table beside the terminal. “This hunk of plastic maybe.”
Of course—the Selection Pointer Interface Device. The SPID. Spend some effort making this primitive crap more intuitive, instead of wasted on clever new acronyms. It might make more sense to name it after a small rodent.
“Yeah, Dave, that’s it. The mystical orb that makes this all possible.”
&
nbsp; He hands over the spid and I give it a try. Bingo, the arrow moves. Now let’s see what the running man does. I navigate the arrow over the pictogram and click once. The white arrow changes to a tiny image of the same running man, but animated this time, his little arms and legs going wild. Must mean he’s working on it.
Dave and I stare at the screen, waiting as the animated figure runs in place, going nowhere. What is it doing? Something, though it fails to give any clue as to what, or any evidence of progress. I fear the running man could be another metaphor—angry Bobs charging through the corridor, coming this way.
* * *
There is noise at the door—the knob turning. Someone steps in, flips the switch, and the lights flicker on one by one. Unlike the Bobs, this older gent suffers from male pattern baldness, and he wears small rimless glasses. The tweed jacket with elbow patches must be an old favorite, worn daily for some time. He does not immediately notice us, rather goes directly to the instructor’s desk, hauling a satchel that he plops down and roots through. He pulls out a stack of textbooks, then realizes our presence.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. “There’s no class today.”
Not another confrontation.
Dave stands. “Working on extra credit.”
Dave!
“Credit for what?” the instructor asks. “I don’t recognize either of you. What class are you assigned to?”
Now would be a great time for a weapon. Zap this guy and make him shut up.
Dave says, “We’re working on a special project to learn where the ice goes.”
Zap Dave, too, before everybody knows our entire plan.
“Ice?” the instructor says. “What are you talking about?”
Dave glances at me like I might say something clever. Hey, don’t look at me, buddy. You started this round of nonsense, you can finish.
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 27