City of Sand

by Robert Kroese

  “I guess you’re Mr. Stockton?” said Benjamin, affecting a slight air of anxiety, so as not to spoil Stockton’s impression of him. Benjamin swung his legs over the side of the bed to face Stockton, but didn’t get up.

  “Yes,” said Stockton. “I’m a very busy man, Benjamin. Dr. Holst said that you insisted on talking to me. Why?”

  This was going to be tricky. Stockton appeared to be content to meet with Benjamin in his room, which meant there would be no opportunity to stab him in the eye with a pencil or brain him with a stapler. He would have to make do with whatever he could find in this room, which wasn’t much. He could conceivably strangle Stockton with a bed sheet, but that would have been an unlikely scenario even if Benjamin had thought to remove the sheet from the bed in advance—which he hadn’t.

  “I want to know what you’re going to do with what I tell you,” said Benjamin. “I don’t know you, and I don’t really know Dr. Holst. I saw a movie once where an American spy was caught by Russians who spoke perfect English, and they pretended to be with the FBI.”

  Stockton smiled. This was a concern he could understand. “You want to make sure we’re the good guys,” he said.

  Benjamin nodded.

  “I had a suspicion you might have such concerns,” said Stockton. “That’s why I brought this.” He held up the book. The cover read:

  The WISE Men: How David Stockton’s Band of Scientific Wizards Helped Beat the Nazis

  Stockton handed the book to Benjamin. “It’s a highly sanitized and somewhat cartoonish account of what this program did during the war, but it’s quite entertaining and mostly accurate.”

  Benjamin took the book, opening it to a random page. It was a section describing, in gee-whiz 1950s language how RADAR worked. He paged through the book, browsing chapters about atomic bombs and theoretical energy beams. The book seemed woefully short on historic detail; anyone reading the book with an expectation that the content would answer the question posed by the title would be disappointed. The lack of causal connection between WISE’s work and the defeat of the Nazis was in some places explained offhandedly by nods to “government secrets” or “still-classified operations.” There appeared to be no mention of eugenics, and the chapter on “Event Forecasting” was laughably generic. Benjamin couldn’t help but smile at the reference to “number-crunching machines the size of buildings” that could one day be used to predict events in the distant future. The concluding chapter of the book gave the impression that the program had been shuttered after VJ Day.

  “Look at page 136,” said Stockton, taking a seat on the bed to Benjamin’s left.

  Benjamin dutifully turned to the page, where he was greeted with a half-page black-and-white photo of the man sitting next to him. Behind him in the photograph was a bank of machinery with exposed wires and vacuum tubes. The caption read: David Stockton, in his Sunnyview lab.

  “You could have just printed up this book,” said Benjamin, closing the volume and inspecting its binding. “If you were Communist agents, I mean.”

  “I suppose so,” said Stockton. “In the end, you have to look at the preponderance of evidence.” He added, as if Benjamin might not understand the word, “That is, you have to think about what’s more likely: that this whole hospital and everyone in it is part of some Communist conspiracy, or that we really are the good guys.”

  Benjamin nodded thoughtfully, suppressing a sneer at Stockton’s condescending reassurances. He wondered if Stockton even saw the irony: the man behind an illegal government program trying to dissuade a subject of that program from giving credence to conspiracy theories. Somehow he doubted it. He supposed that once you’ve convinced yourself that you’re experimenting on children in order to further the cause of “freedom,” you’re well beyond the point where you can view your actions with anything resembling objectivity.

  “What we’re doing here is very important,” Stockton went on. “The information you have could make the difference between victory and defeat in the war against Communism. I know this is all probably very confusing to you, but it’s vital that each of us do our part. You are in a unique position to—”

  He stopped speaking then, because Benjamin had slammed the spine of the The WISE Men into his windpipe. Benjamin had considered backhanding him to ensure surprise, but decided that the risk of the book flying out of his hand was too great. So instead he held the book with his right, swinging it across his body and into Stockton’s throat. His aim had been good: Stockton doubled over, gasping for breath. He wouldn’t be yelling for help anytime soon.

  Benjamin got a solid grip on the book with both hands and brought it down as hard as he could on the base of Stockton’s skull. The binding gave way, and the book erupted into a flurry of pages, scattering across the room. Stockton fell off the bed, landing on his knees. A low croaking sound emitted from his throat as he struggled to get air through his collapsed windpipe.

  His weapon gone, Benjamin stood on the bed and considered his options. If he could slam Stockton’s head into the metal bed frame hard enough, he could shatter the man’s skull—but Benjamin lacked the strength to drag Stockton close enough to the foot of the bed to make that happen. The floor was linoleum—not hard enough to crack Stockton’s skull, particularly if he was resisting, which of course he would be. Benjamin scanned the room in vain for anything hard or sharp. He was losing precious time. Every second he wasted gave Stockton time to recover, and while he doubted he’d made enough noise to attract any attention from the staff, there was always the chance someone would walk in to check on them.

  Benjamin leapt off the bed, turning his foot sideways to connect with the nape of Stockton’s neck. He doubted he weighed enough to break Stockton’s spine, but he hoped to keep him incapacitated long enough to think of a better plan. Stockton instinctively reached up to the base of his skull where the book had struck him, so Benjamin’s heel struck the back of his hand and Benjamin fell awkwardly to the ground. He lay on his back for a moment, dazed. Stockton was getting to his feet.

  But Benjamin was younger and faster, and he managed to spring forward and wrap his arms around Stockton while he was still off balance, knocking him once again to the floor. He found himself sitting on top of Stockton’s chest, and before Stockton could throw him off, he grabbed the man’s hair close to his scalp. He pulled toward himself, then pushed, slamming Stockton’s head against the linoleum. Then he did it again. At first, Stockton tried craning his neck forward, but this just made it easier for Benjamin to thrust it back to the floor. He slammed Stockton’s head three more times before Stockton changed tacks, arching his back and trying to throw Benjamin off.

  It was clear Benjamin wasn’t going to be able to maintain his advantage. Out of the corner of his right eye, he caught sight of the cover of the book, which now lay by itself several feet away, detached from the pages. He pivoted on top of Stockton, so that his head was pointed toward the cover, bringing his knees to his chest. Then he thrust his legs outward, his right heel catching Stockton beneath the chin. He felt a crack in the man’s jaw, followed by the thud of his skull again hitting the floor. Benjamin shot across the floor toward the book cover. He grabbed it and tore the front of the cover off at the spine. He bent the cover until, folding it at the corner to make a shallow triangle, then folded the larger section back on itself to make the triangle more acute. The whole process took about five seconds, and now he had a makeshift cardboard shiv. Not a particularly dangerous weapon—unless you had an incapacitated subject and a lot of motivation.

  Stockton still lay on his back, gasping for breath and holding his broken jaw. Benjamin scrambled back to him and jumped on his chest, letting his right knee slide over Stockton’s collarbone and press against his bruised throat. Stockton tried to call out, but could only wheeze and cough. Benjamin felt Stockton’s weight shifting under him as the man prepared to throw him off. Benjamin would only get one shot at this. All he needed to do is hold Stockton’s head still for a second.
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br />   Pressing most of his weight on Stockton’s throat to pin his head against the floor, Benjamin gripped the shiv tightly and brought it down on Stockton’s right eye. The point held, penetrating the eye socket an inch left of Stockton’s nose. Stockton’s wheezed as his arms grasped at Benjamin’s legs. Stockton’s body twisted underneath Benjamin as the man desperately tried to throw him off. But Benjamin shifted his weight to his arms and, gripping the shiv with both hands, thrust it deep in the eye socket. He felt tissue tear, and Stockton managed a strained scream. He had managed to get a firm hold on both of Benjamin’s legs and hurled Benjamin against the bed. Benjamin landed with a crash.

  Benjamin had to release his grip on the shiv rather than pull it out of Stockton’s eye socket. The shiv had gone at least three inches into Stockton’s skull, far enough to enrage him but not to kill him. Stockton grasped at the shiv, trying to pull it out. Benjamin scrambled back toward Stockton.

  At that moment, the door opened and the nurse walked in. Seeing Stockton lying helpless on the floor with the shiv protruding from his eye and Benjamin pulling back his fist to pound it home, she dived at him, tackling him to the ground. She screamed for help as she put a knee on Benjamin’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Moments later two orderlies ran into the room. One of them knelt to assist Stockton while the other helped subdue Benjamin. Once again, there was the flash of a syringe and the bee sting on his arm. Before he lost consciousness, he caught sight of David Stockton sitting up, the shiv lying on his lap. He held a bloody towel to his eye. Benjamin had failed. David Stockton would live.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Benjamin didn’t see David Stockton again. When he awoke, it was dark. He lay in bed for several hours, wondering what would happen to him. He’d missed his chance to kill David Stockton, and he had revealed his intentions—but WISE still needed him. He doubted they would kill him. They certainly wouldn’t let him go. Would they torture him for information? If so, would Holst be forced to oversee his interrogation? He wondered just how far Holst could be pushed before he turned on WISE, as Dominick Spiegel had. Some time after the sun rose, the door to his room opened and Holst walked in. He looked tired.

  “Good morning, Benjamin,” he said.

  Benjamin didn’t reply.

  “David Stockton is going to lose his eye,” said Holst. “The eyeball was ruptured, and the extraocular muscles were damaged. You also broke his jaw. But he is conscious and coherent. Any brain damage appears to have been minimal.” He paused a moment. “You could have killed him.”

  “That was the idea,” said Benjamin.

  “Why?” said Holst, who seemed genuinely baffled. “Surely you see the importance of this program. You must see the threat we are facing.”

  “I see a threat,” said Benjamin. “Probably not the same one that you obsess about, though. So what’s the plan now? Extract my memories by other means?”

  Holst sighed. “We don’t have to go down this road, Benjamin. We both want the same thing: to find out what in your memories is real, and what is not. That is the path out of here for both of us.”

  Benjamin shook his head. “See, this is your problem, Holst. You think that the details of my memory are just filler. Noise that you have to filter out from the signal. But I think you’re missing the point. Felipe didn’t construct an entire world so that I could communicate to you a series of discrete facts—dates of battles and assassinations. Everything about the world he created, everything in my memories—real or not—has meaning. My experiences aren’t raw materials for you to sift through; they’re a complete history of Benjamin Stone. And those memories end in Sunnyview in the year 2000. Why?”

  “You can’t read too much into that,” said Holst. “It may be merely coincidental that—”

  “No,” said Benjamin. “There are no coincidences. You said it yourself. The moments in time that the subjects pick aren’t random. I was projected into Sunnyview at that particular time for a reason. And it sure as hell wasn’t to warn you about the Korean War.”

  “Then perhaps the key is this other subject you met, Sofia. If we could determine—”

  “No!” cried Benjamin again. “I didn’t travel to Sunnyview so I could give you third-hand information about some future terrorist attack. I came there to find the truth about Jessica.”

  “You know the truth,” Holst protested. “Jessica is not real. She’s a figment of your imagination!”

  “Everything is a figment of my imagination! This is what you’re not getting. You want to pick out the ‘true’ aspects of my vision, but it’s all true. My daughter’s death is just as meaningful to me as the Korean War or the Kennedy assassination. More so, if I’m honest. And Jessica’s murder showed me the kind of man William Glazier is—the kind of man David Stockton must be, to have masterminded a program like this.”

  “You’re telling me that you decided to kill David Stockton for a crime you know he didn’t commit?”

  Benjamin laughed. “How many people do you think will be assassinated by the CIA because of the information this program has provided? People whose crimes are just as imaginary as Jessica’s murder. What crime did I commit, Dr. Holst? What crime did Estefan, Miguel, Thomas or Marina commit? What crimes were committed by the hundreds of children in Sunnyview who have developed birth defects because of this program?”

  “The exposure to those chemicals was an accident. We merely took advantage of—”

  “Bullshit!” Benjamin snapped. “Glazier Semiconductor dumped tons of dangerous chemicals without having any idea what those chemicals might do to the people drinking the water. And even if they didn’t realize what those chemicals would do then, they sure as hell know now.”

  Holst frowned. “The dumping has stopped,” he said.

  “Are you sure of that?” Benjamin asked. “Have they stopped, or did they just find a stealthier, more efficient way of introducing the chemicals to the water supply? You know how valuable your subjects are. Do you really think David Stockton willingly cut off the supply?”

  Holst regarded Benjamin silently, ruminating on his words.

  “You don’t see it,” said Benjamin. “Not yet. But I do, because I’ve seen who David Stockton really is. Are my memories fiction? Maybe, but I see the truth about this program more clearly than you do.”

  “I see,” said Holst. “I suppose this means you aren’t going to cooperate with us.”

  “Not willingly, no,” said Benjamin. “Although you might get some information from me by force. Maybe I will tell you about the Luxembourg Cheese War or the time Martians invaded Delaware.”

  Holst sighed. “We don’t torture, if that’s what you’re concerned about. As you imply, the threat of physical pain is not a good catalyst if one is seeking to separate truth from fiction. Besides, that isn’t our area of specialty. We prefer to focus our efforts on the mind.”

  Benjamin suppressed a shudder. “Meaning what?” he said. “Hypnosis? Partial lobotomy? Some kind of truth serum?”

  Holst shook his head. “None of those would produce the results we need. We require a subject who is able to give a clear and complete accounting of his memories. We can’t make this project work with uncooperative subjects.”

  “And you can’t force me to cooperate,” said Benjamin.

  “I don’t have to force you,” said Holst. “Every day I get a little close to getting the truth from you. Yesterday was by far our most productive session, but the price was revealing to you the truth about this program. I can see now that was a mistake. But each session, I learn a little more about how to get answers from you.”

  “Yes, but I’m on to you now,” said Benjamin. “You can’t make me forget what I’ve learned.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Benjamin. It’s no trouble at all for me to send you back into a hallucinatory state. I’ve just got to administer the right mixture of drugs. If I increase the dosage a bit, I think I can elevate the vividness of the hallucination to the level that your expe
riences in this hospital disappear from your memory completely. When you wake up tomorrow, you’ll once again be unaware that you’re Felipe, and I’ll get another chance to probe you for information. And if I fail, I’ll bump your dosage up a little more and try again the next day. It’s only a matter of time before I convince you to cooperate.”

  “It won’t work,” said Benjamin, trying to sound certain. “If you send me deeper into the delusion, it will just strengthen my hatred for David Stockton and this program. And you said yourself, you’re out of time. You don’t have an unlimited amount of time to get answers from me.”

  “Not unlimited, no,” said Holst. “But we appear to have bought ourselves some time. One of our other subjects, Marina Evans—who you met the other day—has been jabbering in Finnish all morning. We’re recording it all, and a translator is on his way. We played some of what she said over the phone to him, and she seems to be talking about troop movements in Eastern Europe. We don’t know yet what time period she’s projected to, but it seems to be a critical moment in the struggle against the Soviets.”

  A sense of unease crept into Benjamin’s gut. He knew the year: 1983. Marina Evans had projected herself to somewhere in Finland, where she had come into possession of information about Autumn Forge, the military operation Glazier had told him about. Presumably she would witness some part of the escalation that would result ultimately in all-out war between the United States and the Soviet Union. David Stockton would write up her account and send it to Washington, where it would sit in a filing cabinet for the next 33 years, waiting for events to catch up to the prediction.

  No, that wasn’t right, he realized. No one would ever look in that filing cabinet. No one in the government would remember it existed, and there were no fancy computer systems to make bells go off when the words Autumn Forge came up. Even if WISE correctly predicted the exact dates Autumn Forge occurred, and even if the CIA or whoever they were working with took them seriously, there was no way any government agency was going to have any kind of system in place to alert anyone of the danger 33 years after the warning was made. The only way anyone would know the danger posed by Autumn Forge was if WISE was still in operation. David Stockton—or someone else working for WISE—must have made a call to Washington some time in 1983. So not only had Benjamin failed to kill Stockton; he’d failed to stop WISE. Thanks to Marina Evans, the program would go on for another fifty years. A profound feeling of defeat washed over him.