Nerve Center

by Dale Brown

  The airman slicing the meat glanced in Mack’s direction.

  “No electrodes in your neck yet?” Mack asked Madrone, narrowing his eyes as if he were scanning for microscopic ANTARES implants. “Guess 1 can’t ask you to toast my bread, huh?”

  “Jeez, you’re more obnoxious than usual today, Knife,” said Zen, rolling in behind him.

  “And why not, oh, exalted one,” said Mack. He did a mock bow. “Your father-in-law just offered me a job as janitor here.”

  Actually, Bastian had tried to talk him into flying Megafortresses. Smith would take a job with a commuter airline, or even look up that Brazilian geezer who’d come on to him in Vegas, before stooping to flying BUFFs.

  “I’m sure you’ll get a good assignment soon,” said Jeff.

  The thing about Stockard that pissed Knife off was his ability to deliver a line like that without giving himself away. Anybody overhearing him undoubtedly thought he was being sincere.

  Mack knew otherwise. But there was no real way to answer him, or at least Mack couldn’t think of anything snappy. He compensated by making sure the airman cut him an extra slab of beef from the rare side of the roast, then helped himself to the rest of the spread. Known colloquially as the Red Room, this mess and the fancy food had once been reserved for special occasions. Bastian had thrown it open with his “all ranks, all the time” decree. Interestingly, most of the base personnel had responded by using the Red Room only for special occasions.

  Mack decided he’d eat here until his next assignment was settled. Might as well. Odds were he’d end up getting shipped out to Alaska, or perhaps the Antarctic.

  Bastian—whom he’d actually had to make an appointment to see—had pretended to be gracious after Mack turned down the Megafortress. He’d told him he could stay on as an “unassigned test pilot,” whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Obviously a career crusher. When Mack had said that was no good, Bastian had pointed out that the MiG project would live on for only a few weeks more. After filling out some odds and ends and collecting data for future simulations of next-generation Russian planes, the plane would head for deep storage. If Mack couldn’t snag something before then. he might very well find himself assigned to something he didn’t like, almost certainly not at Dreamland.

  Things did look bleak. The only assignment Mack’s preliminary trolling had turned up was as a maintenance officer for a squadron of A-10A Warthogs.

  It was possible, maybe even likely, that the brass was trying to get him to glide into the sunset. The fact that he’d gotten waxed over Somalia probably embarrassed them. They just hadn’t dared admitting it to his face at the time.

  Bastards. Let them put their butts over a few dozen ZSUs and SA-9’s. If he hadn’t hung around there, an entire company of Marines and at least one helicopter would be Somalian tourist attractions right now.

  Knife took his tray into the paneled eating area, his flight boots tromping on the thick red carpet that gave the room its name. Madrone sat by himself at a table for four in the corner. Mack walked over and put his tray down.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Monkey Brain,” said Mack. When Madrone didn’t respond, Mack started humming the start of the John Lennon song “Mind Games.”

  Madrone shot him a glance, then put his head down, staring at his food.

  “Silent treatment. I get it,” said Knife.

  Zen rolled across the room, tray in his lap. “Mind if I sit here, Kevin?” he asked.

  “I’m kind of thinking,” said Madrone softly.

  Smith started to laugh. “What the hell are you thinking about?”

  “Leave him alone, Smith.”

  “Come on, Zen, Kevvy can fight his own battles. Right, Key?”

  “I would like to be left alone,” said Madrone, his voice a monotone so soft it was difficult to hear even in the quiet room.

  “Hey, that’s okay, Kevin,” said Zen.

  “Guess he doesn’t like you today,” said Mack.

  Stockard said nothing, rolling backward and then across to the next table. Madrone stared down at his food.

  Mack liked the guy, he really did. Maybe he shouldn’t have busted his balls quite so hard.

  “Hey, look, Key, I didn’t mean nothing, okay? Just bustin’ your chops. If I was out of line, I’m sorry.”

  The Army captain raised his head slowly. His face had changed—his eyes were squeezed down in his forehead, under a long furrow.

  “Go away, Major,” he said.

  Mack laughed. That’s what he got for trying to be nice.

  Madrone stared at his food for a few seconds more, then slowly pushed back his chair, stood, and walked from the room.

  “See ya, Microchip Brain,” said Mack, looking across at Jeff. “They got to him already.” He shook his head. “They ought to bag ANTARES.”

  “For once I may have to agree with you,” said Zen before turning back to his food.

  ANTARES Bunker

  27 January, 1555

  THE CHAIR POKED INTO HIS BACK. HIS LEGS WERE LEAD. A thick snake had wrapped itself around his head.

  “Relax now. Kevin,” said Geraldo. “Do your breathing. You’ll find Theta when the time is right.”

  What did it take to breathe? What muscles did he use?

  Poor, poor Christina, lying so helpless in the hospital bed, smiling at him. She’d been born with anaplastic thyroid cancer, a rare, nearly inexplicable, and always fatal cancer. It could only have come from the radiation he’d been exposed to at Glass Mountain and Los Alamos. Poison.

  No. He’d gone over all that, buried it a year after burying his daughter, after his wife left. Colonel Glavin helped him get a transfer. That was five long years ago.

  He was the helpless one. Impotent.

  That wasn’t him, just a part of him. Once he’d been tough, once he’d been brave. The bullets splattering around him. He ran with the grenade in his hand.

  Shit, the tape is gone. I pulled it, it’s live.

  Screw these bastards. Screw them all!

  Knives, red and sharp, poking from every direction.

  “Try to relax, Kevin,” said Geraldo again.

  “The music,” he said. “Could you, could you change it?”

  “The music’s bothering you?”

  He felt his heart pounding in his chest. “Yes. It’s killing me.”

  “Carrie, the music.”

  “I’ll get it, Doc,” said Roger. There was some static in the background, then a loud click. “Oh, shit,” said the techie.

  A loud hush filled Kevin’s ears, a kind of wind sound that must have come from some malfunction in the equipment, a crossed wire or something. There was a light popping noise in the background, a set of footsteps, and then a sound like thunder, two peals, three. The noise gave way to a storm, rain coursing down from enormous clouds, bursting overhead, then trickling slowly across and through a thick canopy of leaves. Light burst across his eyes, then darkness again, shapes receding.

  He stood in a thick forest. Rain fell all around him. His pants were wet.

  Alone in the middle of a vast tropical rain forest, alone and at peace.

  “You’re in,” whispered Geraldo from far way. “You’re in.”

  The forest felt beautiful and empty. Could he stay here? A jaguar circled nearby. A snake slithered through the trees. It was more jungle than forest.

  Rain. Storm.

  “Kevin?”

  Madrone felt something snap below his head, a sharp pain as if he’d overstretched a ligament. Someone pulled off the glasses.

  Geraldo was standing in front of him, smiling. Her assistants were peering over her shoulders, expressions of awe on their faces.

  “You were in Theta-alpha for twenty-eight minutes,” said Geraldo. “And you responded to the computer.”

  “I was in Theta?”

  What had the computer said to him? What had he seen? What had he felt?

  He didn’t remember anything except a vague, restful pleasure.
>
  And danger at the edges, beyond the trees.

  “Are you sure I was in Theta-alpha?” he asked again.

  “Oh, yes. Oh, yes. You were in Theta and you responded to the computer. Just a pulse, but it was definitely there,” said Geraldo. “I can’t believe it. We’ve never, ever had results like this. Never. Not this early, not this long or fast.”

  “Let’s do it again,” Kevin said.

  “So soon?” said Geraldo.

  “Let’s do it again,” he insisted.

  “Your pants,” said Roger, pointing. He’d lost control of his bladder as he entered Theta.

  It was immaterial. He had to get back there.

  “Again,” Kevin said sharply.

  Dreamland Commander’s Office

  29 January, 1705

  COLONEL BASTIAN PUSHED HIS LEGS UNDER HIS DESK, stretching out some of the knots that had twisted in his muscles. But there was no way to release the pressure of the one developing in his head.

  “The way this works, Colonel,” General Magnus continued over the secure phone, “reports come to my office.”

  “I understand the normal procedure, General,” said Bastian, struggling to keep his voice level. “I was ordered—”

  “You don’t accept orders from anyone but me.”

  “The Assistant Secretary of Defense asked specifically for an eyes-only assessment of ANTARES. I delivered it. And I copied you ahead of time, despite her instructions not to.”

  “Chain of command. Chain of command.”

  Dog pushed the phone away, resisting the temptation to answer. He detested the political bullshit. Worse, he’d been maneuvered into a no-win situation. Magnus was his boss, but Washington wanted a direct say over what happened at Dreamland. Magnus hadn’t minded that so much with the past Administration—he’d been tight with the NSC as well as the Joint Chiefs. But things were different now.

  Nor did it help that Dog had told Washington what it didn’t want to hear—go slow, if at all, on ANTARES.

  “You still there, Bastian?”

  “Yes, General, I am.” Dog pulled the receiver back to his ear.

  “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Magnus said. “You’re covering your ass fifty ways to Sunday on this.”

  “Actually, sir, I’m playing it straight. We’re ramping up ANTARES, per your direct order. But at the same time, I don’t think it should have priority.”

  Magnus snorted. “You sound like Brad Elliott more and more.” He was referring to Dreamland’s last commander.

  “I’d take that as a great compliment, General.”

  “Just remember where the hell he is,” snapped Magnus, breaking the connection abruptly.

  As he hung up the phone, Dog realized the lieutenant general had never actually disagreed with the report on ANTARES. But it wasn’t Magnus’s opinion—or Bastian’s—that counted. And the truth was, the program was galloping along.

  The intercom buzzed.

  “Next appointment, Senior Scientist Andrew Ichison,” said Gibbs. “Mack Smith is also waiting, sir.”

  “Again?”

  “Wants to check on the progress of his assignment, sir.” Dog could tell from Gibbs’s tone that Smith was standing about three inches from him.

  “Tell him there’s nothing to report.”

  “I did that, sir.”

  “Slot him in.”

  “Your call, sir,” said Ax, hanging up the phone.

  Bastian pushed his chair back, waiting for Ichison to appear. The scientist had been part of the high-altitude spy glider project, which the Administration had cut. Dog had to tell him, along with twenty other civilians, there was no place for him at Dreamland, and probably anywhere else in the government.

  ANTARES was hot. The advanced particle laser, the high-altitude spy glider, the HARM follow-ons, and the MiG Aggressor projects were not. Many of the senior military people who’d been working on them would be shunted into career dead ends. A good portion of the civilians would be left with nothing but a handshake and a reduced government pension for their years here.

  Most accepted the news with grace. They thanked him for trying to hunt down jobs, and then giving them a personal heads-up on the prospects. And then there were people like Mack Smith—who barged into the office instead of Ichison.

  “Major, you are to wait in line,” Dog told him.

  “Egghead told me to go first. Nice guy. So how are we doing, Colonel? Did you find something?”

  “I offered you a job here.”

  “No offense, Dog, but you and I both know that’s going nowhere. Unassigned test pilot—that’s a man without a country.”

  “I meant the Megafortress project.”

  “Ah, I’m a jock. I’m not flying cows. Shit, Colonel, the EB-52 is a girl’s plane, you know what I mean?”

  “No, Major, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Hey, it’s great for Cheshire and Rap, probably as much as they can handle. But guys like us—we’re jocks, right? We belong in the best.”

  “You know, Mack, I’ve had a ball-buster of a day. In spite of that, and maybe in spite of my best judgment, I have actually made some inquiries on your behalf. But you know what? I have a tremendous headache. And when I get a headache, I sometimes forget to follow up on things. I don’t answer important phone calls. Paperwork tends to get lost.”

  “Gotcha, Colonel.” Mack jumped to his feet. “F-22 is going to need a commander, I hear.”

  Dog said nothing.

  “How about a gig in Europe? Naples?”

  “Good night, Major.”

  Mack took a few quick steps toward the door. “Hey, go easy on Ichison,” he said, spinning around. “Not wrapped too tight. I told him there’d be plenty of people looking for an engineer with experience like him and he just about started crying.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just doing my bit.”

  Allegro, Nevada

  29 January, 2034

  BREANNA TOOK HER BEER INSIDE INTO THE LIVING ROOM, curling up on the couch next to Jeff in his wheelchair. He had a folder with reports open on his lap, and seemed only vaguely interested in the basketball game on the TV; she reached for the TV controller.

  “Don’t change the station,” he growled.

  “Oh, come on, Jeff. You’re not watching it.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “What’s the score?”

  “Denver 45, Seattle 23.”

  “Blowout.”

  “Don’t change the station.”

  “What a grouch,” she said. She drew a curve on Jeff’s skull behind his ear, sliding her finger down and back along his neck. “Come on. You don’t want to watch TV. Let’s watch a dirty movie.”

  “Friends is not a dirty movie. And that’s what you’re aiming at.”

  “After Friends.”

  Her hand shot toward the controller, but he was too fast, snatching it away.

  But then, as she knew he would, he clicked it to her program.

  “Whatcha doing anyway?” she asked him as the opening credits rolled.

  “Classified.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s just bullshit for Washington,” said Jeff finally, closing the folder. “Flighthawks and ANTARES. Need-to-know bullshit.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” said Breanna. “What are you getting me for Valentine’s Day?”

  “A six-pack of Anchor Steam.”

  “Very romantic.”

  Jeff tucked the folder away in his briefcase, locked it, then wheeled himself into the kitchen. By the time he returned with a beer, the program had started. As it happened, it was one of the two Breanna had already managed to see.

  “Want to play Scrabble?” she asked.

  Jeff agreed as long as she’d put the basketball game back on. Twenty minutes later, she was ahead by more than a hundred points.

  “What’s bothering you?” she asked her husband. “You didn’t all of a sudden start rooting for
the Sonics, did you?” He shrugged.

  Breanna put her fingers at the base of his neck, kneading gently. Finally he began to speak.

  “I saw Kevin today. I think ANTARES is blowing his head to pieces.”

  “They only just started.”

  “He got into Theta-alpha already. I talked to Geraldo before I came home. She’s excited as hell and pushed up the simulator tests. He’ll be at Stage Five in a few days. Hell, maybe tomorrow.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Flying on the sim.”

  “Really?”

  Jeff nodded his head but didn’t say anything. ANTARES was one of the few things they didn’t talk about before his accident, and not just because the program was highly classified. Something about the interface and the associated protocols, Breanna gathered, deeply bothered Zen. But when her husband didn’t want to talk about something, he didn’t; there was no sense pushing him.

  Besides, there were better ways to spend the night. Breanna slid her fingers under his shirt. “Loser has to draw the bath,” she told him. “And gets the bottom.”

  “Bree—”

  She leaned forward and kissed his temple, then rolled her tongue gently around his ear. “All right, you get the bottom whatever the score.”

  IV

  BRAINSTORM

  Aboard Hawkmother

  (Dreamland Boeing 777 Test Article 1)

  Dreamland Range 23 West

  18 February, 1007

  THE RAIN STARTED WITH A FEW SCATTERED DROPS, HIT-ting against the high leaves. Time extended; the sprinkle grew quicker, then slowed again, drops sliding and popping through a filter of gently spinning leaves. The wind began to pick up. A bird with long massive wings fluttered overhead as a snake unwound in the distance.

  The dark night surrounding him grew even blacker. The rain fell more strongly, began to pound. A low peal of thunder heralded an intense outburst; more thunder, more, and then a fierce flash of lightning.

  Kevin Madrone felt his brain fold open and his body catch fire; he exploded into the forest and the storm, becoming the rain, becoming the thunder, becoming the flame that flashed at the center of the universe.