Spies: 7 Short Stories

by Michael D. Britton

  He rolled his eyes and cuffed himself, then stood up.

  And then Jean shot him.

  Just grazed his upper arm. A nick, really.

  He winced. “What you do that for, Jamie?” he whined.

  “Just a warning shot across your bow. You do anything other than what I tell you, I will adjust my aim. Understood?”

  He just nodded.

  “Now move. Out the front door – to my car - across the street and down a couple houses.”

  “Where’s Mikey? And Graham?”

  “They’re not coming,” she said, as they passed the living room where Talley’s muscle lay still on the green, deep-pile carpet.

  “Are you crazy, Jamie?” asked Talley as they went down the front steps. “Have you been working for them this whole time?”

  “I’m not Jamie,” she said.

  She stuffed Talley into the passenger seat, and strapped him in with the seatbelt wrapped once around his neck, then pulled it taught.

  She reached into the back seat and grabbed a pair of Gavin’s sweat pants that were lying there and tossed it across Talley’s privates, then put the car into gear and sped off into the night.

  #

  The Association’s top-notch surgeons were able to repair Jean’s body. Thanks to her quick thinking - putting it on ice - they managed to restore it to functionality with only minimal damage that would take a few weeks to fully recover from.

  Q’Tal restored Jean to her original condition, leaving Jamie’s body an empty husk – since there was no Jamie anymore to inhabit it.

  The first thing Jean did was head to the hospital to visit Fran.

  “Thank you for watching out for me,” said Fran, after Jean sat down at her bedside in the ICU. She was in awful shape – battered head to toe. The doctors weren’t hopeful for recovery.

  Jean pushed a tear away. “Fran, I didn’t take very good care of you. I just left you there in the alley.”

  “You made sure I was safe. As I did you. Those thugs put some serious pressure on me, but I didn’t give you up, Jeanie. I didn’t – break.”

  “No, you were strong as ever,” said Jean, grasping Fran’s hand.

  “Did you get your man?”

  “I did. Brought him in alive.”

  Fran closed her eyes.

  “Congratulations. You know, I met Jamie’s fiancée at the party. Gavin. He’s a good man.”

  “I suppose he is,” said Jean.

  “He really liked you,” said Fran.

  “Me? He’s never even met me,” said Jean.

  “Of course he did, dear. I’ve been switched enough times to know that a body is just a body. Last night, Gavin fell in love with you, not Jamie’s body. He just didn’t know it.”

  “You’ve always been such a good judge of character,” said Jean. “But I find that hard to believe.”

  “Believe it. He and I spoke for a little while. He said there was something different about Jamie last night – that although she seemed distracted, he felt something he’d never felt before, and loved her more than ever.”

  “Perhaps he’d had a little too much to drink.”

  “Jean, the reason I was such a good agent – I had a way of getting people to open up to me. Baring their souls. Take it or leave it. But I think you should be the one to return Jamie’s body to him.”

  “All right,” said Jean. “I’ll ask Tom if I can lead that detail. It’s supposed to happen later today.”

  “Good,” Fran smiled weakly.

  Then she closed her eyes again.

  And went limp.

  THE END

  * * * * *

  Superthread

  The building shook like a Turkish belly dancer. The lights went out, and the emergency lights did not come on.

  It was pitch black.

  As I stood in the corridor on the top floor of the World Trade Center north tower, I thought a hole had appeared in the roof, allowing a cascade of iridescent light to tumble in. But it soon became apparent that was not the case. A gentle, twinkling hum met my ears as the light quickly grew brighter, and my skin tingled as though I’d had a brush with death. The light faded, and standing before me was a man in an unfamiliar uniform – his visage lit by the glow of some kind of handheld computer.

  He reached toward me with his empty hand and said, “Come, quickly, there is no time to waste, Michael.”

  The building shook again. Caught up in the bizarre moment, I stepped toward him, my heart pounding, and was swept away in another burst of light. For an instant, I felt disembodied, and the next thing I knew, I was in a room that was clearly not a part of the WTC.

  “Welcome,” said the man. “I’m Commander Roman. I’m sure you’re feeling very disoriented right now. Please, just come with me and all will be explained.”

  My mind was racing with questions, but I kept my mouth shut, choosing instead to contend with the mild nausea in my stomach.

  Commander Roman spoke, but not to me. “Yes, he’s been secured.” A pause. “No, no there were no incursions – it was a clean recovery. I’m bringing him there now.”

  Roman stood a little taller than me, and I glanced up to his ear. I tiny blinking light in his ear canal explained his conversation – he had some kind of implanted communication device.

  “Why do I feel sick?” I asked.

  “We can approximate Earth gravity, but there’s nothing quite like the feeling of having a planet under your feet. That sure, solid rock just can’t be duplicated, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know - I mean, that’s all I have ever known! What are you even talking about – approximate gravity?”

  “I’ve said too much already,” said Roman. “It will all be explained shortly.”

  We rounded a corner and entered some sort of conference room. One wall of the room consisted of a huge, floor-to-ceiling window. It looked to be nighttime outside – which was weird, since it was about nine o’clock in the morning last I checked. In the center of the room was a long, oval table with a highly polished surface. A man with flawless black hair sat at the far end, wearing a similar uniform to Commander Roman.

  “Michael, have a seat,” the man said. “I’m Captain Anthony Stone. This is my ship,” he said, indicating our surroundings by stretching out his arms.

  “Ship?” I asked. “What are you talking about? We’re nowhere near the ocean. A couple of minutes ago I was on the top floor of the World Trade Center. There was an earthquake – or something – and then your man brought me here – though I don’t understand how.”

  “I understand your perceptions. Unfortunately, you don’t quite have a grasp on reality right now. But I’ll help you. First off, it wasn’t an earthquake that you felt in that building – it was an attack.”

  “Terrorists?” I asked, my heart starting to pound as I recalled the day eight years ago when a bomb went off in the WTC parking garage.

  “You could say that. I’ll explain in a minute. As for how you got here – we used a technology that is, as-yet, unfamiliar to you. We call it a translocator. It basically converts you into a data stream and sends the data at the speed of light, then rebuilds you at the destination from quantum-entangled matter.”

  “A teleporter?” I scoffed. “That kind of technology doesn’t exist. I mean, it’s just theoretical at this point.”

  Stone slowly shook his head. “Obviously not,” he said. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  I looked around the spartan room. “And where is here, exactly?”

  “Come, I’ll show you,” said Stone, rising from his chair and moving toward the window.

  I walked to the glass and stood near the captain.

  “See?” he said, pointing down and to the left. “That blue dot, there. That’s where you were.”

  I peered down and saw a blue and white sphere. It appeared to be about the size of a ping pong ball at my feet. “Earth?”

  �
��Yes. And that tiny white dot out there is the moon.”

  “That – that’s impossible,” I protested. Without warning, the nausea I’d felt for the last few minutes swelled up inside me, and I felt like I’d swallowed my heart. Unable to control it, I dropped to my knees and threw up on the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping some drool from my mouth in embarrassment.

  Right on cue, it seemed, two uniformed men came into the room and cleaned up my mess using some kind of silent Dustbuster as Stone helped me to my feet and guided me to a seat at the table.

  “You’re fine,” he said encouragingly. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

  On his way out, one of the other men placed a glass of water before me, which I picked up with a shaky hand and sipped. The cool water soothed my burning throat. My brain told me I had just seen the Earth from afar, but my gut told me this was some kind of elaborate setup. Feeling unsure, I probed for answers. “I still don’t understand,” I said. “What is going on – who are you people?”

  “The building you were in,” said Stone, “it was destroyed. You would’ve died had we not extracted you when we did.”

  “What about everyone else in the building?” I asked. “There were hundreds – thousands of people . . .”

  “Nearly three thousand of them perished,” said Stone, looking solemnly toward the window.

  “Why? Who did this?”

  “It’s complicated,” said Stone. “Perhaps it would make more sense if I first explained not who they are, or even who we are – but who you are.”

  “I know who I am,” I said. “I’m Michael Jacobsen. I run a research lab in New York City. A few minutes ago I was on my way to deliver an important presentation to some sponsors on the top floor of the World Trade Center. Now I’m thousands of miles from Earth, throwing up in a floating conference room. So give me answers, not riddles!”

  “All right,” said Stone. “I’ll brief you on the facts. But you won’t believe me at first.”

  I just stared at him.

  “Your name is Michael Dennis. You are a chrono-agent. You were born September 12th, 2001.”

  “Wait – wait,” I said, holding up my hand. “That’s tomorrow. Why don’t you start over, and tell me the truth this time.”

  Stone sighed. “Just keep listening. You were born September 12th, 2001. About ten years ago, on November 18th, 2027, your current assignment was initiated. You returned to February 20th, 1991. From there, you began to carry out your mission.”

  “You’re crazy,” I said.

  “What do you remember from before 1991?” he asked.

  “Lots of things,” I said. “Let’s see, in ’91 I formed J-Tech Industries. Before that, I got my doctorate, and before that I was in college. Before that I was in high school. I remember when Reagan was elected in 1980. What’s your point?”

  “You don’t really remember those things,” said Stone. “You are aware of those milestones as facts, but can you really describe to me a specific, personal memory associated with anything before 1991?”

  I thought for a minute. My mind was fuzzy, my thoughts swirling, and I couldn’t put my finger on anything in particular. “Well, that was a long time ago. So, no, not exactly – it’s just kind of vague. But so what? Nobody has a perfect memory.”

  “But we do have memories,” said Stone. “And you do, too. It’s just that your real memories – of the real you – have been carefully stored offsite, and are not currently accessible to you.”

  “Offsite?” I asked. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means we made a backup, and we will restore that backup as soon as it is prudent.”

  “All right, I’ve heard enough,” I said, standing up. My knees were still a little wobbly, but I didn’t let it stop me. “Take me back to New York. Now.”

  Stone’s eyes moved to the door, where two beefy guards stood like statues. “Why don’t you just sit down and hear me out?” he asked, more of a command than a request.

  I glanced at the menacing guards, considered my trembling knees, and thought better of trying to escape. For now.

  “Okay,” I said, slowly sitting back down. “Convince me that your little tale is true. And tell me what you want from me. I’m all ears.”

  “Activate display,” said Stone, to no one in particular. A paper-thin, translucent screen appeared between the two of us, hovering a few centimeters above the surface of the desk. He placed both of his hands palm down on the smooth surface of the desk, and the area around his hands began to glow a faint green. I could see right through the floating visual display to the face of Stone, whose eyes were closed for a few moments. Then some data appeared on the levitating viewscreen. I surmised that Stone was using some sort of thought interface that worked through his palms and his desktop. From my vantage point, I could see the files he was pulling up – the words appearing in reverse, with Stone’s face just beyond the image. The screen’s luminescence cast a warm glow on his features, and revealed him to be a little older than he’d appeared at first. I watched as Stone input commands simply by looking at different areas of the display.

  “Here,” he said. “I’m going to show you a little movie. Pay close attention. You should recognize the star.”

  The image flipped in three dimensions so that it was oriented toward me – no longer a reverse image – and a video recording then played back.

  It was me.

  Only I was younger, and I was doing things I’ve never done, in a place I’ve never been. It must have been recorded about the time I finished college, but I had no recollection of it whatsoever.

  First, I was climbing into some sort of tight-fitting space suit. Then I addressed the recording device directly. “Today is November 18th, 2027. My name, and therefore your name, is Michael Dennis. We were born September 12th, 2001. I am a chrono-agent for the Allied Time Corps. So are you. ATC is sending me on a mission to 1991. To accomplish this, I will have to undergo a bulk download of my tertiary memory patterns. Once this is completed, I will be sent back, with only my mission parameters and some false memories to guide me.”

  I stared at the screen in disbelief. Surely this was some kind of clever fabrication. The video continued.

  “When I am retrieved, or rather, when you are retrieved, you will not believe any of this. You will be so immersed in your new identity that the truth will seem like a lie. My handlers have assured me that reintegration is possible – but difficult. There have been cases where an agent was lost to his cover. Michael,” here, my twin on the screen seemed to look directly into my soul, “don’t let this happen to you. I want my life back when I’m done with this mission. Now, an upload of my tertiary memory patterns will not be possible until your mind is prepared to accept them. Any attempts to do so otherwise would result in the destruction of the patterns, and possible brain damage. The first step in preparing your mind is about to take place. In a moment, I will speak a key phrase, one that has been programmed, like a post-hypnotic suggestion, to begin reorganizing your neural pathways. It only works when spoken by me. The phrase is, the doors to my mind will open in time.”

  As I heard my doppelganger speak those words, it was like a spell came over me. I was overcome with a sense of déjà vu, like I was remembering a dream I had once had – perhaps as a child – a dream with which I was intimately familiar, yet from which I was somehow removed. I felt like I knew what would happen next, only the details of the prediction were just out of reach of my consciousness.

  Stone spoke and disturbed the strange, swimming sensation of my mind. “Michael, you must understand. The reintegration algorithm may not work exactly as it was designed – it’s possible you won’t just snap out of this. Your mission was not supposed to last so long. We intended to pull you out after only thirty-six months under cover. There were some – problems – and you were gone for over ten years.”

>   I stared at Stone through a mental haze, still disoriented. “Problems?” I murmured.

  Stone closed the playback image by simply closing his eyes for what looked like a long blink. As he lifted his palms from the desk, the green glow quickly faded.

  “When the time came for your original extraction, we were unable to initiate the chronovex – that’s the equipment we use for time relocation. We were working on a solution when we were attacked by our enemies – people related to the ones who attacked your World Trade Center. The chronovex was destroyed in the attack.”

  “Thirty years from now you’re still fighting those people?” I asked, amazed.

  “Unfortunately, yes. But the nature of the war has changed somewhat. A few years ago, they got their hands on some classified tech, and built their own chronovex. Now, much of the war is taking place in the past on various strands of time.”

  “You’re talking way over my head,” I said.

  Stone raised his hand to thwart further interruption, and continued with his narrative. “When we lost the chronovex, we had eight agents in the field – all were lost to time. Once we rebuilt the unit, we managed to retrieve three of the lost agents, but three had died during their extended assignments. You are the next to last to come home, Michael.”

  I tried to get my head around this fanciful story. “So, you’re saying that the last ten years of my life have been a lie? That I’m really somebody else?”

  “It’s not just me saying it,” said Stone. “You just heard it right from your own mouth. Of course – before you left, you had no idea you’d be gone so long. Nobody did.”

  I thought back on what Stone had just said. “So, there’s one more agent unaccounted for?”

  Stone became visibly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat. “I wasn’t going to talk about this until you were reintegrated. But, time is of the essence.” He breathed out a short sigh. “The final missing agent – was Nikki Dennis. Your wife.”

  “My wife?” Just hearing her name made my stomach lurch and my heart pound.

  Yes, my wife.

  I think I remember.

  Nikki.

  “There’s more,” said Stone. “She’s been under cover for even longer than you were. Six months before you left on your mission, ATC sent Nikki back to 1993 on a special assignment.”