She storms out, slamming my door. I feel sorry for myself. Fucking terrorists.
* * * *
The summer after my third year in college I received a letter stating that all federally backed grants and student loans were being discontinued to help fund the war expansion. Newly dis-educated, I went to the recruiters as required.
I was grateful that my partial college education allowed me to enlist in the Navy. Eight years mandatory service in the Navy sure as hell beats six years in the Army, kicking mud in the Middle East or Africa. Or even Asia, now. Christ. That craziness is for better and braver men than me.
I had a girlfriend and a brand new son to pay for. Part time work and student loans weren't cutting it, anyway. I thought a steady paycheck would be nice.
* * * *
We’ve been in Vegas for two weeks, which is too long.
Sleeping, I see the talking head on the pedestal. Even sleep racked by liquor doesn’t prevent it. He's told me where to find him several times now. I now know what he wants, and he promises to leave me alone once I’ve accomplished this.
Of course he'll leave me alone once I’ve done what he's asked, considering the nature of the request.
The talking head can also cause me a great deal of pain. His talents include setting every nerve ending in my body on fire simultaneously while I'm sleeping. It's only been short bursts so far, but he promises much worse if I malinger much longer. I’m inclined to abide. He’s becoming irritated as the days pass without progress. I'm scared.
I wake up around noon and feel poorly. I can’t blame it on my wound, which is healing and hasn’t leaked for some time. It's my new, flamboyant lifestyle causing this rotten stomach. The talking head’s waning patience may be contributing.
I microwave a cup of instant coffee and sip it, waiting to see if I’ll vomit again. Nothing forthcoming, I dress in a nice shirt, slacks, and my haggard fedora. I take my coffee and shamble barefoot to the door that separates my room from Tom’s. It’s unlocked, so I open it and saunter through.
Tom and a lady are sitting across from each other at his small, round, hotel room table. They aren’t speaking, but look like they were interrupted by my entrance. They both turn their attention to me as I enter. Tom’s sweating, and looks to be hiding a bit of fear, which doesn’t speak well for current conditions.
I call her a lady because she's older than Tom and me, but definitely not old. She’s not a whore, I can sniff those out of a crowd, so I’m pretty much out of my league. I have the urge to stop time and kill her because that’s what I now do to people who intimidate me.
“Cran,” Tom says, “this is Commander Doyla.”
Commander. Shit. The Navy’s come for us. I guess we will be killing her. Why isn’t she in uniform?
“Don’t stop time and kill me, boy,” she says. Her mouth is flat, but her voice is like butter. I think I love her. She has quality, and I’d like a lady of quality to love. Too bad how this will end. I need to be careful, though, because she can apparently read minds.
“We don’t want to kill anybody, Commander. We haven’t yet. Right, Tom?” I smile.
Tom just stares at me. The commander looks at Tom, expressionless. “There’s not much that she doesn’t know.” He glances at the commander and she meets his eyes. I realize that she’s prepared, that she has us. Glancing around, I discern there’s a lot of high-drama glancing playing out.
I’m out of my depth. I hide my unease with anger, as is fitting. “So how did you find us? What do you want?” I finish with a snarl. Maybe she won’t realize that I’m scared of her.
“I’m here to get you both moving. You’ll both apparently stay here forever if I don’t. Also, we've never lost you, so there was nothing to find. We don't need the blood trail you've left in your wake or Thomas’ credit card records to find you. What we want is for you both to leave the country. You’re too dangerous to remain.” The commander settles back in her chair, hands folded.
I look at Tom. “We’ve been here for over two weeks. What kind of limit do you have on that credit card?”
“I don’t know. My dad never told me. A pretty big one, I guess. These rooms get expensive.”
His dad? Jesus Christ. Must be nice.
Back to matters at hand. “You said, ‘we.' Who are you talking about?” I’m feeling impetuous. She’s not in uniform.
“We are the small group responsible for reverse engineering a tiny device that unlocks potential in suitable subjects. We’ve existed in our current form for over twenty years. I’ve been the group’s liaison for the last five years.”
Interesting. I don’t understand.
“The group's been testing these devices for almost fifteen years.” She continues. “You’re our most recent test. So far, you’ve been somewhat promising, if erratic. Most subjects don’t survive the surgery. Most of those who do go insane.”
How do you respond to that? Crazy bitch. I love her, and wish she’d hold me.
I sit down on the corner of Tom’s bed and start a cigarette. It makes me feel worse. My head starts pounding, and my stomach rolls. I put my coffee down on the floor.
“What the fuck, reverse engineering?” I know about that from the internet. Did they put something in my skull?
“There’s a small capsule that directs certain connections in your brain, connections that didn’t exist before. The original device, the one we reverse engineered, was taken from an exhumed corpse. We think it was once Genghis Khan, and it put up a hell of a fight once it was brought out of the ground. The surviving archeologist from a team of forty scientists and laborers caved the corpse’s skull in with a brick from behind. What eventually became our sample was later found inside of this skull.
“Once our government obtained this device, a small team was formed to study it. I was brought onboard when it was determined they needed a subtle interface with the public and the test subjects. I’m a public relations specialist.”
“Is this really happening?” I ask Tom.
“I think so. She’s been explaining it to me for over an hour.” Tom pauses. “Genghis-fucking-Khan.”
“Jesus.” That’s all I have. I’m becoming a little overwhelmed.
“Not quite, but his kin’s involved, as you already know,” the commander replies.
She’s right. I do already know that. John the fucking Baptist. Treacherous old bastard. At least I don’t need to get Tom up to speed on that issue, since he’s nodding in a knowing, irritating little way. The commander must have been briefing the hell out of him. I wonder if they made out. Tom’s a smooth son of a bitch, and he hasn’t worn pants in days.
“Why have you let all of this happen? We’ve killed a lot of people.” Holy shit we have.
“Actually, we killed all of those people on the flight from Hawaii by causing the engines to fail,” she answers. “Your only participation was allowing our action to resolve when you could have interfered. You’re not solely responsible for those deaths, if that makes you feel any better.”
Nope, although I'm not overly concerned.
“You needed fear triggers to force control of your abilities from the subconscious to a conscious effort. You've performed very well. All of our other successful subjects required many more than two fear events for their brains to wire conscious control. Of course, you had help.”
Thank God for that. Those other subjects must have trod through a world of shit.
“Why did you need to kill all of those people? Couldn’t you have just held a gun to my head and threatened to kill me, over and over?”
The commander shrugs. “We’ve found that artificial threats are ineffective. The threat needs to be real. The mind’s a canny thing, and subjects often, at least subconsciously, detect controlling, insincere involvement. We also needed to work quickly with the circumstance you created. Above all, subtlety has no place in the control we practice.”
“So we’re lucky to be alive.”
“Absolutely. The freedom we allow our su
bjects is necessary since each possesses different qualities, which only he or she can find. We never know what it will be. We only know how to trigger it, leaving the rest to the subjects. They must survive the situations we cause.
“The death rate of functional subjects is rather high. Those that live to receive my introduction usually poses character traits we desire.”
She waits for a response. I have none, so she continues.
“Your direction is to complete the task provided by the Baptist. You’ll have safe passage. Plane tickets are waiting for you at the airport. Your plane leaves this evening, seven o’clock.”
Too fast. God, I hate her. “How many subjects die for each success?” I ask.
“Thousands. We’ve identified every suitable test subject presently living, and scan at least once a year for new candidates. While your suitability is statistically rare, we’ve identified over seventy-thousand other acceptable candidates. We’ve performed approximately a thousand operations a year for the last fifteen years. Of those, ninety percent typically do not survive the operation. Half of the remaining ten percent that survive the surgery are immediately determined to be irreversibly, uncontrollably insane, and are euthanized. Most of those who become functional subjects die during the orientation and training period that you have successfully completed. Only one or two subjects a year reach this stage. When you consider the total cost of the project, each functional subject is a huge investment.”
“Your little speech sounds rehearsed.”
“I give it once or twice a year.”
“So, you have a nice little squad of trained monkeys that you found by some 'scan.' That sounds completely reasonable.” I feel petulant. “When do we meet the rest?"
“Scanning is just a matter of identifying potentials, and everyone is scanned, boy. Once candidates are identified, we wait for them to present an opportunity for our surgery. If they don't, we prompt as required. In your case, one of our agents assaulted you outside of a bar, resulting in your treatment in the hospital for head trauma.
“Regarding any squad, our subjects are kept separate and independent. Their coordinated, direct involvement in any effort has proven disastrous. We’ve learned to simply point and shoot. Send them out of the country as soon as they’re somewhat stable and let them cause what havoc they may. More often than not, the results align with our interests.”
“So what prevents me from killing you, then finding your group and killing all of them?”
“We can turn off your device at any time, making you powerless and possibly insane. Deactivating an operational device can also be fatal to the host. Or we can make the device kill you directly. We can also kill everyone you’ve ever loved or even liked, and we always know exactly where you are.
“The world’s your oyster, Cranston. Don’t allow pettiness to cause you to fail. You can become as rich and as powerful as you please, as long as you become so outside of this nation’s borders. Become a crime lord. Start a religion.” Tom’s eyes light up. “Become a super hero. Just do whatever you decide somewhere else. First, though, go to John the Baptist. He has a need.”
“How do you know about him? Who put the device in his head?”
“You’re not the first test subject he’s spoken to, just the first to live as long as you have. It's rudimentary, but we can somewhat monitor the devices once we've implanted them, and have learned to identify the Baptist's interference. He only seems able to communicate with the insane subjects, who are euthanized once unviability is confirmed. It’s almost like your mind was prepared for this intrusion, but can also compensate for the insanity that allows it to take place. You're very interesting, and we're collecting as much data on you as possible.”
“I’ve taken a lot of acid. Not recently, though.”
“Indeed.”
“So who put the computer chip in his head?”
“It’s not a computer chip. It’s primarily organic.” She stops, distracted by Tom, who has left his seat to take a beer from his mini-fridge. I give him the nod, and he gets one for me too.
The commander continues. “We have no idea who implanted the original devices. Most likely visitors from elsewhere or members of an earlier civilization. Our copies are pale comparisons.”
“Why do you care about him? It’s a shriveled head that doesn’t do much but whine and torture me while I’m sleeping.”
“We care because we’re ignorant. Fulfill his request and we won’t need to correct that. We don’t like unknowns, especially when they can intrude upon our work.”
“I destroy him so you don’t need to worry about it anymore.” This beer is good.
“Yes. Grant his request. Release him from immortality. Our government can’t. No one can get close enough without causing an international incident. He’s very well guarded. But you could walk right up to him, unimpeded. I imagine he would even help you do so.”
“Why are you telling us so much? You’re going to kill us when we’re done, aren’t you?”
“The best soldier is one informed of the dangers around him. If we send you off with your questions unanswered, you’d waste time and reach the wrong conclusions. That would be to all of our detriment. We provide you with some truth because we can destroy you both and everything you hold dear. You should both understand that this will be the consequence of divulging any of this information to anyone.”
Wow. Commander Doyla is a heavy speaker, and thinks highly of her words. I finish my beer and tell her so. She smiles.
"Don’t miss your fucking flight," she says. "Tickets are waiting at the Euro Trans counter."
She leaves the room, and Tom and I share a long, slow exhale. After another beer, we pack a couple of bags and head down to the lobby to check out. The receptionist tells Tom that our bill’s already been settled and that we have a package. She hands Tom a large envelope. Tom opens it. Two passports. He hands me mine.
We take a taxi to the airport, almost five hours early. We think it best not to be late.
At the airport, we’re model citizens. We forgo the bars and wait patiently for our plane to board. Tom watches porn videos on his laptop in full view of any passersby who'd care to notice. I nap. John the Baptist doesn’t attack, or even address, me while I’m sleeping.
We fly nonstop to Rome. First class, which is nice. I worry that someone, somewhere, is going to spill coffee on a control panel or some such circuitry, and then I’ll die.
I’m not sure if everything the commander told us is true, but we’re careful not to offend, just in case. She seemed very earnest.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
During the flight to Rome we eat, have some drinks, then sleep for ten hours. The stewardess wakes us over Italy. There’s an old lady behind us with no teeth, making eyes at Tom. I tell him to go for it, but he doesn’t laugh.
At the baggage claim in Rome, Tom asks how we are able to move through space in frozen time, how we can even breathe since the air is also frozen. I tell him his question is not a large part of what I don’t understand about frozen time. We leave it at that.
After we have our bags, I freeze time and we ransack airport restaurants, bars, and gift shops until we have enough cash to fill a new stolen bag. We move quickly and are getting very good at this. I restore time after we leave the concourse and we’re in line for a taxi. Five minutes later, we’re on our way.
Our cabby’s Australian, so I don’t need to use the English to Italian dictionary I’d lifted. Tom tells him to take us to an inexpensive hotel in Vatican City. The cabby, Shane, tells us that there’s no such thing. I tell Shane to take us to the hotel closest to Saint Peter’s, and that cost is no concern because we’re loaded. He likes the sound of that, apparently, and we make good time.
Tom gives me a look. He still thinks we need to remain unobtrusive. I’m tired of that, though. We’ve been trying to be unobtrusive for weeks and it hasn’t helped us at all. And we aren’t very good at it, so why bother? I’m co
ntent knowing that there will be no consequences for any of this.
I take two beers out of our cash bag and open them, handing one to Tom. They’re cold and covered in condensation, so we have to wipe soggy bills off of them. I roll down my window to smoke and notice that Italy smells funny. Most foreign countries do, though. I don’t like unfamiliar things.
“What are we going to do when we’re done here?” Tom asks.
“I have no idea. Not get killed, hopefully.” Why is Tom asking me? He’s the brains. I’m the good looks and sparkling eyes.
When we arrive at the Hotel Ciste Sacro, Tom heads inside to check us in with his credit card. I pay Shane with a fistful of Italian money. I have no idea how much I give him, but he doesn’t look offended, so I guess it's enough.
He eyeballs our cash bag. I tell him we're out of beer and that he should fuck off, then spring from the taxi and trot into the hotel after Tom.
Once in our hotel room, Tom uses his laptop to look up a map of Vatican City. I tell him not to bother because I have no idea where we’re going yet. I convince him to come down to the hotel bar with me. It’s about eleven o’clock at night now, and I’m due.
After a couple of hours in the bar, we’re slurring a little when we speak, which isn’t often. I’m getting tired of Tom’s brooding, but he seems to be enjoying it, so I leave him alone for a while. The bartender seems to like us. We’re tipping well.
“I saw on the news today that the Pope announced a fourth secret of Fatima.”
No response from Tom.
“Mary told those children that you suck.”
Still nothing, which is bullshit. That line was gold. I thought it up in the shower, and have been waiting to use it all evening.
Things start looking up when Shane walks in with two friends.
The bar is a small affair, sequestered in a back corner of the hotel lobby. Tom and I are sitting at one of the bar's two tables. No one sits at the other.
The bar itself barely has room for its six stools, two of which are occupied by locals. I think they’re locals, anyway.
Tall Tales of Felony and Failure Page 6