by Micah Thomas
She grudgingly admitted that Wiseman had been right in some regards. Hakim's potential was never properly tracked, and this development was exactly what Wiseman had warned. Some of the others, as he called them, were not like him. Cynthia had compartmentalized this knowledge and saw the danger in projects like Ifrit, but she'd been blinded by the opportunity. She really wanted Wiseman back, to bargain, to plead, to see if there was some way to combat Hakim and the nebulous threat he presented.
Clearly, Matthew had been the right pick for the job. Operations in Vegas were right on track. There was no question that this wouldn't be a success in one way or another. Either contain or discredit the Wiseman phenomena. That was good and would restore some sanity to the people. The rest, well, the rest was a mess and Cynthia was starting to feel her age. Not in her body. She'd always been in good health, but she was tired of the sacrifice. She'd never married, had few lovers, and given not just her best years, but all of her time to the Institute. By almost any measure, she'd met her goals in running a company, and advancing scientific discovery, making herself and many others very wealthy in the process. Now that the whole tower of cards threatened to topple, the victories of the past felt hollow.
What would happen if she just quit? She had the resources to disappear and never be found. Leave this mess for someone else to figure out. What little responsibility she felt, was to herself alone. No, this was her baby. Her life's work, and she wouldn't abandon it. Not now. But what were her options, really? Once a subject truly bound themselves to an entity, there was no way to disentangle, short of death. In all her time, they'd never risked that experiment. Would the entity return to that place where we found them? Or would they become a disembodied ghost of a thing? Cynthia hated that despite their advancements, they'd never penetrated the mysteries of what exactly they had discovered. She returned to first principles, hoping that something would click for her.
Compatible subjects were special somehow. We can predict this compatibility based on factors in their lives. The drugs accelerated their perceptions and helped open the door, but through it all, the process worked through the matrix of the subject. Entity alignment was root. Something about the person could snap to the entity because of that shared value. The subject's own persona continued to play some part in the manifestation, a background augmenting factor that shaped the expression, but with Wiseman, that subject persona had faded over time.
Cynthia wished Denzel was around to bounce ideas off someone that understood this. But there was no one that she could trust anymore. The diffusion of knowledge had been her idea, so no single person had the full picture. Put that in the box with the rest of her regrets. Unable to come up with something better, she resolved to make an additional mandate. Using any and all resources necessary, Hakim should be killed, if he could be killed.
CHAPTER TEN
THE UNIFORM FIT and Sanders thought, briefly, that his father must have worn something similar. How he resented that his father was a janitor and yet, are their lives so different? They both take care of the trash at the end of the day. The girl brought him the costume, security badge, and access codes, all customized with his photo. Knowing computers is a nifty thing. She wouldn't be able to help him once he starts. Cell phones were prohibited, technological signal suppression she called it.
Janitorial chief, a higher rank than he held in the force. There'd be fewer questions that way.
Sanders took the bus downtown. He'd not been able to continue renting a car and a nice hotel after Dan went back home. Already eating a bit into their savings. Hopefully, this boondoggle will yield fruit, not that Sanders even knew why he was doing this anymore.
There's a girl locked in this tower and I'm the white knight, black knight albeit, here to rescue here. What then? Take her to her parents who happily think she's in therapy? Tell them what? What if she's like Henry and I get burned for my trouble?
Sanders rolled his janitor cart down long hallways, emptying waste baskets, nodding at the few geeks typing away at their keyboards. Are these the little Eichmanns just following orders? Do they have any idea what their Institute really does?
He passed a security guard, even in a place like this, the clichéd overweight white guy is security. The man seemed to snore while awake, barely watching his console of monitors.
It was late at night, and the building more or less seemed completely asleep, practically empty. Sanders approached the main elevator banks. Here was the big test for his credentials. He'd finished the office floors, but his destination was not on the routine path. He selected the floor labeled restricted and swiped his badge, utterly unsure if he'd be going up or down or out because of this. When the elevator did move, it was decidedly down and fast. The door opened to another series of long sterile white hallways lifted from science fiction. The air smelled fresh and unlike a hospital's bleach. Sanders pushed his cart, still keeping up appearances though it felt ridiculous. He walked down the straight corridor, through another badged set of double doors, leading through a fenced-off path through a massive warehouse, pallets stacked high and wrapped in plastic. Is this where the alien bodies are kept? His shoes squeaked on the linoleum and he startled when motion sensor lights triggered, lighting up his path. Through more double doors, heavy, steel, windowless doors. The hallway turned left, more corridors sparsely punctuated with smaller lab doors. No labels. No guide points. Behind one of these, a young woman.
Sanders started to sweat in his uniform. Standing in one place too long. Which way, damn you! What did his contact say? Once you are close, you'll know it. She wouldn't say how, and like a fool, Sanders thought that meant there'd be a giant sign or padlock. Then he heard it, a faint whistle as if beyond a wall. He couldn't catch the tune. It was too faint, but it was a whistle. He took a few steps down the hall to the left, and the whistle disappeared. He returned to the junction and so did the whistle. He followed the whistle in that manner, making the assumption that the louder it got, the closer he was to finding the girl.
More doors without windows. A cool 70 degrees and Sanders thought he must have walked at least a mile. The whistle was loud enough to make out a melody, complex and in perfect pitch and time. Somebody must be a master whistler. As he passed yet another door, the whistle stopped. There was no keypad on any of the doors, or lock of any obvious kind, yet the door did not open when he tried. Sander took a deep breath and knocked a quick shave and a haircut knock. No reply.
He leaned to the door, "Hey, I hear you whistling."
No reply again. Sanders was confused and concerned. He was certain he could find his way back out, but what can he do now? He tried to think, cursing himself for getting this far. A sudden idea, clear as day, came into his mind. He walked back through the double doors, around to what must have been the back of the room he had been at. There it was, a door with a keypad. He entered his clearance code and the door opened on its own. The room was for watchers. Double sided mirror window peering into a movie set apartment. Tasteful art, furniture from a high-end catalog, a TV and flowers on the table.
A teenaged girl, sleepy by the looks of it, looking funny in an adult-sized footed P.J. onesie. She walked into the room and sat on the couch. She looked directly through the mirrored window, right at Sanders.
"Who are you?"
Sanders looked around for a microphone.
"You can just talk. I can hear you."
He cleared his throat and put on his best friendly cop voice, "Hi. I'm Officer Sanders with the Tempe Arizona Police Department. I'm here to get you out."
"Arizona? Last I checked, I was in Seattle. Did my parents send you? That seems odd."
"No. Are you here against your will? Do your parents fully know why you are here?"
"Um, entirely voluntary I'm afraid, but I wouldn't be opposed to going out for coffee."
"Let's do that. How do I open the door?"
She looked like she might laugh and asked, "Is this a secret mission?"
"Lilith, BSI does
not know I'm here."
"Lilly, please. Oh fuck, they are going to be pissed."
"We don't have much time. Does your door unlock from your side?"
"It most certainly does."
"Get dressed and meet me at your door. Don't worry about your things."
She sighed, "Fine."
Kids. Dan wanted one. For years, they went back and forth about it. Closeted gay cops don't adopt. Sander knew that Dan would know how to talk to this girl. Reach her on her level. Sanders knew he always sounded more authoritarian despite his internal tender side. He tapped his foot while waiting by her door. When it opened, she was dressed like any other Seattle teen. Skinny jeans, hoodie, ear buds, boots.
"My name's not Lilith, or even Lilly. That's just the project name. I'm Eva."
She extended her hand in firm shake.
"This is like the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, right? You're my giant Indian and I'm McMurphy. Can I get a cigarette?"
"I don't smoke," he said, shaking his head.
"I was just kidding. Let's go."
Sanders drove, looking over his shoulder often. What had he done? He broke the law, that's what. He didn't kid himself about how he'd have to answer for this, someday. Their exit from the Institute was less eventful than picking up a kid from school. They didn't sign out, and exited through the planned series of side halls without obstruction. The streets were blessedly empty. He glanced at the clock and saw it was very early in the morning.
The girl, Eva, reached for the radio, and the news blared with emergency broadcast signals. Sanders turned it off before hearing what the hullabaloo was about.
"You'll love it. It's the second-best cup of joe in Seattle, and it open twenty-four seven," Eva said, giving Sanders directions to the coffee shop.
"Where's the best?"
"Dunno. I haven't been everywhere yet. God. I'm only a teen."
Eva was spunky. What his mother might have called a spark plug, sassy as a Yankee. She sat sipping her mocha, flipping through the stack of comic books on the table. Sanders thought about calling or at least texting Jane, the architect of the breakout, but checked his phone first. He could see how habit forming this could be. The instinctual reaching for updates. Maybe he would suffer from delayed onset phone addiction after all.
His phone had more than a dozen missed messages from Dan as well. Are you ok, he asked, when are you coming home?
"Fuck," he said uncharacteristically.
"What's up, duck? Don't you have a penalty jar for profanity? You seem like the type."
These little guesses made him almost sure she was a telepath.
"Where do your parents live?"
"Whidbey. Real nice house."
"Finish your cocoa and we'll go."
"No can do."
"Why not?"
"Dude. It's like 2 a.m. They'd just get freaked out if I showed up with a cop now. Aaaand...."
"And what?"
"Whidbey is an island. The ferry won't run again till tomorrow, well, today, not till later today."
"OK then smart ass. For now, we'll stay and finish our drinks, but tell me everything. What do you know about Henry?"
A funny expression crossed her face, like she was trying to remember something, but came up empty, and said "Everything and Henry? Henry, Henry, Hank? No. Sorry. I don't know anyone by that name. Is he your kid or something?"
"What about the dream? You told me, well, you indicated."
She looked at him and he realized she either had no idea what he was talking about or she was lying. She shrugged and looked away.
"Why were you at the Institute?"
"Cataplexy. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry. Like the Incredible Hulk. I transform!" She made her most intimidating expression of monster-dom.
Sanders raised his eyebrow.
"Ok, if I get real sad, real happy, or any strong emotion, and its lights out for me. I fall asleep. This charming sarcastic attitude? They say it's a defense mechanism."
"You didn't apply to get in part of some program?"
"I've fallen a few times. School thought maybe I was being abused. You know, from the bruises. We tried medication, but it got worse. Then one day, doctor Cyndi showed up."
"Cynthia?"
"She's the biggest mucky muck there. Many advanced degrees. She'd been referred my case and offered to help. The end."
"Did they help?"
"Call no man happy until he's dead. That's Plato."
"Aristotle, actually."
"Whatever. I went in, get time away from high school hell. It's like vacation in my own sweet pad."
"Then what?"
"Then you came and here we are."
He could sense the surface answers had hidden depths, or was he thinking about his dreams again? She was a kid, a teenager, and he's no child therapist. Eva yawned and looked her age.
"Let's go."
"Where? More adventure?"
"Hotel. Sleep. Call your parents tomorrow."
Sanders selected a motel that he could afford, one where an older black man and a white teen girl wouldn't be exactly scrutinized on getting a room together. In this part of town, just north of the city along Aurora Avenue, the homeless and prostitutes and homeless prostitutes still walked around in their incomplete circles before dawn. The room looked like a crime scene, with its double beds sloppily made, a dark stain on the wall, and the ever present deeply-rooted smell of cigarette smoke and other unspeakably foul things.
"Think you can sleep?" Sanders asked pulling his feet up on the bed, laying on the burn-marked comforter.
Eva, laying on her bed, also over the covers, nodded and popped her earbuds in. Sanders was astounded at how normal this felt, how unsurprised the girl was about the overall situation, and most of all at his own sense of direction. This felt right, but it couldn't be right. Two wrongs make a right?
Sanders thought he'd pretend to sleep, but actual exhaustion was taking hold. He did the right thing, right? Even while drifting off, he thought about checking the door, making sure it was locked, checking the window, seeing if either the police or Black Star henchmen were coming for them. But the morning, still more night than day, was quiet and the fears and anxieties of the night were fading rapidly. When the sun comes up, he'll take her to her folks, and call Dan, and come home, he thought in a rambling stream of thought of decreasing coherence.
***
Matthew sat alone in the conference room. There were no emails, except those touting his preparations in Las Vegas. The stand in, a man they'd found in an open casting call, had his lines ready to go. They even had a fantastic delivery mechanism, a little razzle-dazzle for the people, to bring him in. This was his make or break show, and Matthew couldn't enjoy it.
There'd been plenty of alarms, but he stopped the escalations. First, someone had checked into a very expensive hotel suite, the one he was planning on using. That's fine, he thought. Maybe Thomas was moving pieces around and didn't tell him. After all, his covert instructions were vague enough to cover pretty much anything. The credit card pings all came straight up to him, and he ok'd them, without sending notice up to Cynthia. It didn't even matter that the credentials were expired and the type normally assigned to vendors. It's fine.
But things kept piling on. He'd watched a black man dressed as a janitor go directly into the heart of the subject quarters. This was harder to circumvent. He sent messages to security to let it go, that this was planned, but it wasn't. He didn't know much about Project Lilith, but if Thomas wanted her somewhere else, so be it. But was this Thomas? Should he be escalating? He didn't like this at all. He'd messaged Thomas before this went down, but didn't receive any kind of response. How was he expected to know what to do?
His flight to Vegas was a red eye, and he planned on leaving directly from the office. The worst thing he could possibly imagine would be Cynthia, storming down the hall, but she never came. He met his Uber driver outside, and sent a final email to his team, praising t
heir efforts. If anything else insane happened while he was gone, Thomas would just have to damage control with Cynthia. He had a job to do.
The driver was an obese man who looked like he'd been literally poured into the car.
"Where we going?" the driver asked.
"Vegas," Matthew said.
"Alright, alright, alright. What happens in Vegas, baby. You know the rest."
They drove fast through the downtown area, catching consecutive green lights in the early morning.
"What cho' do man?"
"What?" Matthew asked.
"For a living, what do you do for the money?"
"Oh, I'm the head of special projects. I make things happen. Sometimes it makes my bosses more money, I guess."
"Ain't that the truth. Boss makes a dollar, I make a dime, that's why I go to Vegas, baby, on the company dime," the driver said with relish.
Matthew just wanted to focus on his objectives, and get away from this conversation. He caught the driver's eye in the rearview mirror.
"You work for Black Star don't cha?" the driver asked, taking the exit to the airport.
"Uh huh," Matthew said distractedly.
"Is that where they keep the alien bodies? You a part of that shit?"
"Yes. No. Aliens? No. There's no aliens," he said as they pulled up to the departures gate.
Matthew started to open the door when they stopped, but the driver locked the door.
"Hey, just a minute young man. Tommy has a message for you," the driver said.
"What?"
"You heard me. He says, you done good, but if you fuck up this next part, whoowee."
