Tether

by Jeremy Robinson

  Chicago is the perfect distraction for SpecTek, diluting attention from their clandestine actions, turning the facility’s destruction into just one of many victims, rather than the cause. They might even get federal emergency funding to help rebuild…

  I shake my head. That’s a stupid idea. They already have federal funding. What they might not have is federal support. Black projects provide a layer of plausible deniability for the agencies involved. In this case, DARPA. But if we can expose SpecTek—show the world what they did—support might be withdrawn internally, the project dissolved. Those responsible might fade into the background—too valuable to scapegoat—but maybe the targets on our backs will fade, too?

  For a moment, I think survival will be enough.

  But I want justice.

  I spent the better part of my life exposing criminals for who they were. It’s been a while since I felt able to shine a light on the world’s darkness, but now…

  Give me a fuckin’ spotlight.

  Newfound determination chases the numbness away.

  Just in time for the helicopter to land. Outside, the airport is lit in greens and purple, the wavy terminal roof, despite its size, looks small in the distance. We’ve landed in front of another private hangar.

  Garcia gives me a nudge. She lifts a headphone from her ear and motions for me to do the same. When I do, she says, “How do you want to play this?”

  “Why are you asking me?” I say. “You’re the FBI.”

  “I’m as out of my element as you are,” she says, and I understand. No one on Earth is trained to deal with what we’ve experienced. “But you know her.” She glances at Reggie. “Your wife was involved.”

  Still is…

  “And you and Lite-Brite over there—” She nods at Rain, who is sound asleep. “—have some kind of spooky otherworldly connection. So I’m deferring to you, because I’m feeling pretty clueless right now.”

  “There are more questions than there are answers,” Reggie says. She’s taken off her headset. As the rotor blades slowed and quieted, she heard some, if not most of our conversation.

  I decide there’s no room for error or nuance, so I decide to be blunt. “Are you going to kill us, or not?”

  “If it were up to me,” she says, “no one would be hurt.”

  “But it’s not up to you,” I say.

  “Not remotely.” She frowns. “Whatever hobgoblin you’ve no doubt imagined me to be, I assure you, I’m not. My part in all this is as a scientist. Nothing more. That’s not entirely true. Quiet. Now’s not the time.” Reggie pauses to compose herself and silence her dissenting voice. “Look… I am happy to argue on your behalf. I owe Morgan that much. But I’m afraid that means proving your worth.”

  Reggie turns to Garcia. “Right now, you’re the hardest sell. So, I suggest you hand over the gun, and keep that sassy mouth closed.”

  Garcia glares.

  “There are men with guns outside,” Reggie says. “What happens next depends on you, but the math doesn’t work out well for you, or the people sitting beside you.”

  If Garcia is intimidated by the not-so-veiled threat, she doesn’t show it.

  Reggie sighs. “I’m not your enemy.”

  “Horse and shit,” Garcia says.

  “If I were, you’d already be dead.” The cold tone in Reggie’s voice makes me believe her. It also makes me realize that I don’t know her nearly as well as I thought.

  It also pisses me off. “Why stop with Morgan? Why not make all of your friends into ghosts?”

  Reggie leans forward. “If your wife was still alive, she would be sitting next to me.” She reaches a hand out to Garcia.

  Waits.

  Rain leans forward. As calm as can be, she says, “Give her the gun.”

  I can’t tell if she’s confident or simply resigned to her fate.

  Bjorn just looks on, muscles quivering, no use to anyone.

  “They could kill us,” Garcia says.

  Rain shrugs. “I’d rather die and know why, than get shot in a helicopter.”

  “They’re not going to kill you,” I point out.

  “My life is not in SpecTek’s hands,” she says, and then repeats, “Give her your gun. We’re running out of time.”

  Reggie’s head snaps to Rain. “Time until what?”

  Rain smiles. “When we know everything, you’ll know everything.”

  Rain is dangling an imaginary carrot. I’m not sure what good it will do us in the long run, but for now, she’s increased her worth. Then she increases ours. “And if any one of these people is harmed, what I know will die with me.”

  Reggie stares at Rain, sizing her up.

  Garcia interrupts by placing her weapon in Reggie’s hand.

  “Thank you,” Reggie says. “You’ve all made the right choice.” She lifts her mic, about to speak to whoever is waiting for us outside. Rain catches her by the wrist. For a moment, I think it was all a ruse, that Rain and Garcia are about to storm the cockpit, hijack the helicopter, and get us the hell out of here. But then she asks a simple question.

  “Who am I?”

  Reggie stares at her, breathing heavy. Then she calms. “The man we left dead in Salem… He was your replacement.” She offers a faux grin. “Me, you…” She motions to me. “His wife. We all worked for the same people.”

  They linger for a moment. Then Rain releases her.

  Reggie opens the helicopter’s side door. Three armed men in suits wait outside, their postures calm, but somehow still ready for action. “Maybe they’ll give you your old job back, though I’m not sure anyone will appreciate your new self-righteous attitude.”

  After Reggie exits, Garcia leans forward, looking around me to Rain. “Hey blondie, if things go south—”

  “I’ll die fighting,” Rain says.

  Garcia grins. “What about you, Gargamel?”

  It takes Bjorn a moment to realize Garcia is speaking to him. Then he flinches and blinks a few times. “W-what?”

  “Are you. Going to. Fight for. Your life?” Garcia asks.

  I’m not sure Bjorn is capable of responding. Then he looks at Reggie, outside the helicopter, speaking to the three guards. His fear melts away, replaced by molten anger. He looks Garcia in the eyes…but says nothing.

  “Good enough,” Garcia says, and then she claps my knee cap. “Lead on, Leonidas.”

  “Leonidas died,” I say, remembering the Spartan king whose last stand against the Persians at Thermopylae was made famous to modern generations by the movie 300, and the comic book it was based upon. “Horribly.”

  “Yeah, but he died fighting. And,” she says, “he knew why.”

  And with that, we have our two-step plan. First, get answers. Second, fight our way to freedom—or death.

  “Great,” I say, and I unbuckle my seatbelt.

  34

  Anyone watching from the outside would likely assume that we are spoiled VIPs. That the three men in suits are protecting us, rather than holding us captive. That the plush jet—a massive Boeing 747-8 this time—was sent to whisk us off in style to some high-powered meeting or tropical location. We’re not manhandled, threatened, or even glared at. The three guards, whose weapons are mostly concealed, are polite, calm, and lack any trace of fear or anger.

  Somehow that scares me more than if they were violent assholes. These men aren’t compensating for anything. Their confidence is unnerving. I find myself listening to their requests. Hell, I even thanked the man who motioned me to my seat on the plane.

  They haven’t bothered binding us. The only hint of discomfort I’ve seen in the guards is when they approached Rain. Subtle body language suggested they were ready for a fight, but when she showed no signs of aggression, they relaxed.

  We’re seated separately. There won’t be any theorizing or plotting on this flight to who-knows-where. Reggie has been silent, seated at the front of the cabin, speaking on a phone and working on a laptop. She walked by me once, on her way to the
bathroom. When she returned—wearing a scarf for some reason—she looked uncomfortable and avoided my gaze.

  While I haven’t really gotten an evil villain vibe from her, I’m pretty sure I can’t count her among my friends anymore, and I certainly can’t trust her. I’d like to discover that I’m a good judge of character. I used to think I was decent at that—seeing the good and bad in people, even those determined to hide the truth. But Reggie had me fooled.

  So did my wife.

  Thinking of Morgan no longer fills me with an intense sense of loss. I mean, I still miss her. Still want to hold her in my arms again. To hear her laugh. But mostly I feel suspicious. Of who she was before she died. Who she really was. Like Reggie, she led a double-life, at least in terms of morality.

  Maybe.

  I think.

  Reggie all but blamed Morgan for this mess.

  And Wisp…my wife’s deformed spirit, is fighting for us. I felt my wife in the monster’s touch. Heard her voice. Felt her love.

  The Morgan I knew wasn’t a lie.

  There was just more to her. And she kept it hidden from me—the crime reporter, whose job it was to expose the wrongdoings of others.

  Maybe that’s why she was so supportive of me leaving the Globe.

  I look around the cabin, wishing I could bounce all this off someone. But I’m in a plane full of strangers, and old friends turned enemies. So what’s a guy supposed to do?

  I glance out the window. Fields crisscross the landscape. The terrain is mostly featureless. No cities in sight. No landmarks to speak of. We could be anywhere. My only clues are the sun’s position and the amount of time we’ve been in the plane.

  We’ve been heading south for a good three hours. So that rules out New England, and the western states—assuming we don’t change course. So someplace in the South, which helps me about as much as knowing the stats for the World Bowling championship in 1985.

  And then it hits me: Austin. Texas.

  SpecTek’s third location. That must be where we’re heading. And if we’re right about the kaiju, that they’re drawn to significant locations associated with their lives, or maybe just with the circumstances of their deaths, maybe that’s where they’re headed, too.

  Guesses upon unanswered questions. Creating a narrative based on either of those won’t do me any good. So I opt for distraction. My therapist would call it avoidance, but tackling this particular problem head on might get me shot.

  Tactical avoidance, I tell myself. No reason to feel like a wuss.

  And like a good avoider, I focus on what’s in front of me. There was a time when that would have been my laptop and whatever story I was working on. Now…it’s the screen in the seatback in front of me.

  I give it a tap. The display lights up, showing a menu of options ranging from meals, to movies, and even video games.

  I tap on the menu out of habit. I like to eat on flights. Food calms my nerves. The selection is exquisite. Filet mignon. Lobster. Truffle raviolis. I have a Pavlovian response to the list of foods, but get stuck on ‘Cheeseburger.’ What can I say? I’m a simple man. I give it a tap, confirm I want fries with it, and select a drink: hard cider. Then I click ‘Order’ and have a little chuckle.

  One of the guards seated at the front of the plane, facing me, leans to the side, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He could be sleeping for all I know. But I’m not about to test the theory by sticking out my tongue or something. I switch over to the game menu, find Asteroids, and boot it up. I pluck out the little joystick embedded in my arm rest and go to town, channeling my inner ten-year-old.

  Five minutes later, I’m dead.

  And I have the high score. Unlike arcade games, this modern reimagining of a classic game doesn’t have a limit on the number of characters I can input. So I use a classic Simpson’s joke, Seymour Butts, and try not to chuckle again.

  I’m getting a little punch drunk. Exhaustion is doing weird things to my mind. I barely feel nervous right now. I’m probably flying toward interrogation and death, but I’ve faced down supernatural kaiju. Twice. A gun feels…simple.

  At least right now. When it’s pointed at me, I’ll probably piss myself.

  But for now, I’m Lord Commander of the galactic empire on a mission to free space from asteroids. I fire up the game again, intent on beating the one and only high score. I die in minutes…but I still get to put in a new name. I type it in.

  I.P. Freely.

  Classic.

  I’m about to start the game again, when I spot a name in the third-place spot of the mostly empty top ten list. With a score of thirty.

  Only it’s not a name.

  YOU WERE FRIENDS WITH HER, RIGHT?

  I’m tempted to stand up and look around. Figure out who else is playing the game. But that would be a dead giveaway. So I deduce, like Sherlock. It’s not Reggie, who is still hard at work at the front of the plane, spreading out across a conference table. It’s certainly not any of the guards, who are all sitting motionless. Bjorn is snoring. Rain has been silent, but she doesn’t strike me as the type to play games, or even think about playing games. Which leaves Garcia. I don’t know her very well, but like this question, she is straight forward and inquisitive.

  Garcia, then, I decide. Or someone else on the plane I haven’t seen. The 747-8 is a large plane. At the front is a conference room. In the middle, first class passenger seating—where they’ve put us. The sections behind the wings are walled off. The door leading back has been closed since we boarded. I have no idea what’s back there or who’s back there. So it’s possible this is some kind of psy-ops meant to get information.

  But I don’t think so.

  I start a game, careen into an asteroid, and am brought back to the top ten list. 20 points. I type in my name.

  GARCIA? YES. FOR A LONG TIME. I THOUGHT.

  I wait and watch the list.

  A new name appears. Third place again. 500 points.

  I smile a bit. She’s having trouble resisting the urge to destroy asteroids. It is cathartic.

  THINK YOU CAN WIN HER OVER? GET HER ON OUR SIDE?

  I throw another match, but only after getting 600 points, reclaiming third place.

  MAYBE. I’M NOT SURE HOW MUCH OF IT WAS AN ACT.

  The response comes a little slower. When it does, she’s reclaimed third place with 2000 points.

  I nearly laugh.

  YOU’RE A NICE GUY. SMART. ACCOMPLISHED. AND YOU RESPECTED HER, EVEN THOUGH SHE’S A FREAK. SHE—

  The rest of the message is cut off by the edge of the screen. I wait, knowing what’s coming.

  Third place. 2500 points.

  SORRY. SHE LIKES YOU. SHE JUST NEEDS TO REMEMBER WHY. OR HOW MUCH.

  I play my heart out as fast as I can. At 4000 points, I nose dive into a UFO.

  My third place name is, I SEE HOW IT IS… SO, YOU THINK I SHOULD WHAT? TALK TO HER?

  A long wait.

  20,000 points. First place.

  Damn.

  BRING IT ON. BUT FIRST, TALK TO HER. NOW.

  I sigh… Not only have I been schooled at Asteroids, I’m being shoved out of my avoidance comfort zone. And I know she’s right. If anyone has a chance of reaching Reggie, it’s me. But I’m afraid…because if I talk to her, there is a good chance one of two things will happen. First, I could find out more about Morgan that I don’t like. That seems likely. Second, I could lose my temper, which would probably result in a beat down. Maybe worse. I really don’t know.

  But it needs to happen.

  If Saturday mornings taught me anything, it’s that knowledge is power.

  I’m about to stand up when the rear door opens.

  A woman pushes a cart into the aisle and closes the door behind her. She’s dressed in a form-fitting SpecTek-colored—white and light blue—stereotypical flight attendant uniform. She smiles at everyone who looks back. “Who ordered the burger?”

  Ho-lee shit.

  I raise a sheepish hand. She smiles wider and bring
s the food to me, while the guards and Reggie look back at us with an almost amused ‘Da-fuck?’ look on their faces.

  As I accept the tray of food from the flight attendant, she gives me a bemused grin and rolls her eyes. She has no idea what is going on and who is on this plane, I realize.

  “Wait,” Garcia says, seated somewhere behind me. “We can order food?”

  “Sure thing, hon,” the attendant says, flicking her hand through her long, blonde hair. “Menu is on the touch screen.”

  With that, she exits the way she came, and I can hear Garcia tapping her touchscreen already.

  I take a deep breath in my lungs and then take my food tray in my hands. The guards stiffen when I stand and approach, but Reggie waves them off. They watch me like a hawk as I approach the conference table, but they don’t move.

  I take the seat across from Reggie, who’s watching me over the top of her laptop screen.

  “Hungry?” I ask.

  She closes the laptop. Sets it aside. “I could eat.”

  There is a long list of sarcastic responses I could say or things I could do, but I opt for quiet kindness. The Bible says something about that, I think. From the depths of my past, the verse springs to mind, though I have no idea where in the Bible it can be found.

  If your enemy is hungry, give him food to eat, and if he is thirsty, give him water to drink. For in so doing, you will heap burning coals on his head, and the Lord will reward you.

  I unwrap the plastic utensils, take the knife and carve the burger in half. Then I move half the fries and half the burger to a napkin and slide the plate to Reggie. Next, I crack open the can of cider, pour half in the plastic cup, and slide that to her, as well.

  She smiles at me, but her eyebrows are upturned. Wounded.

  Hot coals poured, I think. Now let’s see how the Lord rewards me.