Irene just stood there, in front of him, with a gloomy look on her face. "I can't see how you don't see through that man," she said with some edge. "He's evil."
Chris would have preferred to forget the last few minutes and just move on, but he knew Irene wanted to use the tense moment to try to prove her point-of-view. "I think he just has it in for me," Chris countered. "My guess is he's concocting how to punish me for going after you alone."
"No, it's that he knows you've been processed, and as you said yourself, they only process troublemakers."
Chris pushed himself away from the wall. "I guess we'll soon find out if I am a troublemaker when I talk to Mac." Chris watched as she glanced up and down the corridor.
"So which way is it to Mac?"
Chris let out a mocking laugh. "There's no way you're going with me. I'm placing you in holding while I talk to Mac."
This time, Irene grasped his arm. "No way, I'm going with you."
"It's impossible," he said, brushing her hand away. "There are cameras everywhere, and I couldn't explain why I'm dragging you along."
"But what if Mac doesn't remember? What if the information that's left in his mind is just nonsense to you?"
Chris understood that her questions revealed her continuing mistrust of him. He needed to reassure her once again; it was becoming a part-time job. "Whatever he says, I will come back for you." He placed his hand on her upper arm and pulled her closer. "You'll just need to trust me."
She looked into his eyes for a second or two. "Are you going to kiss me?"
He jerked away as he exhaled. "Come on, let's get going. I need to drop off this gear at my locker."
She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm just saying. It seemed like you were building up to something again."
…
Irene's jesting ended as she was taken from Chris and escorted down a cement-block passageway. At the counter, Chris roughly signed the forms that indicated he'd been the one to bring her into custody. Taking credit put a bad taste in his mouth, but the documents could be helpful later if Sims and Jerry returned before he could see his plan through. The forms would later help support his case that he'd merely shot Sims to gain the reward over him for Irene's return. Chris would undoubtedly be punished for shooting Sims, but it was far better to face the consequences of that action than to be found guilty of conspiring with a member of The Discord.
Checking "yes" to a few more of the questions on the form, he shoved the paper back to the woman who stood behind the counter. She wore a nametag, pinned to her shirt, that read Melinda Brown. Melinda had a thin, elegant face—the kind a painter would relish.
After scanning the brief account that Chris provided on the form about how he'd recaptured Irene, Melinda smiled at him. "Congratulations on bringing in Irene Duncan. Your . . . reward will be great." She glanced back down at the paper and then at the credentials that Chris held in his hand. "Chris Parks."
He wondered if she was considering adding to his reward in a more personal way. He knew people like her who, within the organization, hunted for opportunities to latch on to someone moving up The Firsts' hierarchy. Doing so gave them access to better housing, food—everything. Presumably, she'd already realized he'd be elevated to such a position. Chris bore in mind that her assumption could be useful when he returned for Irene.
He knocked on the counter twice with his knuckles, feigning modesty. "I was just doing my job, Melinda." He winked at her, and she beamed. Smiling, he asked, "Ah, do you know where they're holding Mac Donaldson?"
The question instantly changed her demeanor. She cleared her throat, pulling herself up to the stance of attention. "He's in Section R."
"Section R?"
"Yes," she said briskly and turned to organize the paperwork on the counter, which seemed unnecessary given that she only needed to sort three forms.
Chris understood why the mention of Section R would make her uncomfortable. He'd heard rumors on why it was located in a more secure part of the building. It was apparently a place where The Firsts performed experiments. Chris could only guess why they were holding Mac there.
He peered down at his badge, knowing his current credentials wouldn't offer him access to that area. He smiled again at Melinda. "Do you mind calling up there and letting them know I'm coming? I'd like to talk with this Mac Donaldson. And I think they will allow it, given what I've accomplished today."
A look of pride swept across Melinda's face as if she'd already caught and claimed him for her own. "Of course," she answered, her cheerfulness returning.
After she made the call, the two chatted a bit. She suggested dinner at her place for some unsettled time in the future for which Chris knew he'd never pin down.
He said goodbye to her as a tall, burly man, outfitted with The Firsts' uniform, showed up to escort him.
…
Passing through a steel door that automatically opened with the recognition of his guide, Chris was shown into a room where he was instructed to walk through a scanner as two onlookers observed him through a plate of glass. Finding neither weapon nor other unauthorized materials, they allowed him to continue alone down a white, pristine corridor that brought him to a solitary door.
Opening it, he peeked inside before fully committing to stepping through the door. In the middle of the expansive, nearly empty space sat a heavyset man at a desk. The man wore a white shirt with suspenders fastened to dress pants. A fedora hat rested at one corner of the desk. He was talking on the phone, but in noticing Chris, he motioned for him to sit.
"Jimmy," the man said to the person on the line, "I want you to follow him. Don't lose 'em, or it will be your pension. You hear me, Jimmy?" The man slammed the phone down and reached for a cigarette that was smoldering in a nearby ashtray. Tapping it twice, he put it to his lips, drawing in its smoke. "You Chris Parks?" he asked, placing one of his hands across his stomach while he withdrew the cigarette from his mouth.
Chris waved the smoke from in front of his face. It was nearly gagging him. "Yes, sir."
The man sat up, smashing the cigarette into the already full ashtray. "I'm Sam Lawson, and it looks like the higher-ups requested that I ask you a few questions before I let you talk to Mac Donaldson." Lawson picked up a piece of paper from his desk. He began to read from it. "Says here, you've served valiantly—escorted quite a few people from the city. But of course, one person stands out from the rest: Irene Duncan." He peered up from the paper. "I suppose we owe you some kind of thanks for bringing her in."
"There's no need, sir. I was just doing—"
"Your job. Yeah, yeah, I get that. Nevertheless, The Firsts want to reward you. They plan to give you a few acres of land at one of the new locations and a new car—perhaps."
"I don't deserve any of that, sir." Chris pulled his chair closer to the desk. The metal legs screeched on the cement floor, sending an echo through the hollow space. "But if I were to be rewarded, sir, I would ask for one thing."
"Let me guess." Lawson eyed Chris up and down. "To see Mac Donaldson."
Chris cleared his throat and readied himself for the speech he'd prepared during the car ride over where he'd mix the truth with a lie. "You see, when I was with Irene Duncan, she told me quite the tale."
"Oh?"
"She said that after I found out about The Discord's location, I asked Mac Donaldson to swipe the memory of it from my mind. He, in turn, did the same to his memories. But Mrs. Duncan said Lieutenant Cunningham informed her that Mac still holds some of those recollections. For that reason, I want to hear what Mac remembers. Particularly, I want to know if I was a traitor to The Firsts."
"Why?"
Chris placed his hand on the cold, metal desk as he paused for dramatic effect. "Because I don't want it to happen again."
Lawson stared at Chris's hand on his desk until Chris slid it away.
"So talking to Mac is just some kind of personal quest for you?" Lawson asked.
"Yes, I mean I suppose I could talk to Lieu
tenant Cunningham about it, but—"
"You want to hear it from the ‘horse's mouth,’ so to speak."
"Exactly," Chris answered, knowing the real reason was that he didn't trust his commanding officer.
"You're showing true commitment to the cause." Lawson yanked on a stubborn drawer to his right. When it opened, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, he tossed the box into the drawer and slammed it closed.
"Thank you, sir."
"You're showing true commitment to the cause," Lawson repeated.
"Thank you—"
"You're showing true commitment to the cause," he said again.
Chris stood slowly. He stared at the man for a few seconds and outstretched his hand toward him. Instead of touching flesh, Chris's hand passed through the top of the man's head.
"You're showing true commitment to the cause," he repeated. A humming noise filled the room, and Sam Lawson disappeared.
Chris crumbled into his chair. "I'm losing my mind." He rubbed his eyes as a door opened noisily at the far end of the open space. He glanced up to see a young man hurrying toward him with a tablet. "Oh, so sorry. That should not have happened."
"What shouldn't have happened?" Chris asked, standing.
The young man pecked frantically at the tablet in his hand. He peered up at Chris as if the question was absurd. "The hologram went down."
"You mean—that was a hologram?" Chris asked feeling a sense of relief.
"You couldn't tell?" The young man dropped the tablet to his side and glimpsed back at the door where he'd entered. "Wait until I tell, Jay. He'll be excited we fooled someone."
Chris gritted his teeth. "I thought I was here to talk to someone about seeing Mac Donaldson." Chris aimed his finger at the ashtray on the desk. "And how in the world could that have been a hologram? I smelled smoke."
The young man shook his head vigorously. "No, no, you see, your mind thought you saw smoke. Therefore, you smelled smoke. I actually wrote a paper on the phenomena. It was well received by the higher-ups."
"Are you telling me that I'm in some kind of experiment?"
"Don't look at it as if it was a bad thing. We don't get many volunteers down here, so when Melinda said you were coming, I got permission to test the program. Your participation will greatly help my project. And that is a good thing."
Chris gestured about the desk where all the theater had taken place. "Who was Sam Lawson?"
"That's the best part. Sam was a memory."
"A memory?"
"Yes, yes, the memory of Sam was extracted from a 98-year-old man who'd witnessed the scene. Of course, we programmed in some new questions, but the image itself was pure memory."
"You mean you have memories just lying around to use?"
The kid raised his eyebrows. "We have all the memories that have ever been extracted. We store them."
Chris ran his hand through his hair. He was having trouble reconciling this new information with what he thought he knew about The Firsts. He'd not considered that the memories were being stored. He could understand keeping the memories for a time to pick out other Discord members. But once that was done, what was the point? Holding people's memories seemed to go against the very thing The Firsts stood for, which was that extracted memories were dangerous. Why they would want to hang onto something that could be detrimental to the peace was a mystery to him. If the recollections fell into the wrong hands, there was no telling what the outcome would be.
"The stored memories are a testament to what The Firsts have done," the young man said, seeming to notice Chris's struggle with what he'd just been told. "It is our greatest accomplishment. Why would we have any desire to erase that?"
The young man's answer was unsatisfying. "So why form the memories into a hologram?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Because we can."
"That's disturbing," Chris said out loud what he was already thinking.
"Well, if I feel too guilty about it, I'll just erase the memory of it from my mind."
The cavalier response rubbed Chris the wrong way, but he needed to put that aside for later. Right now, he had to get to Mac. "Okay, so now that you've had your fun, when do I get to see Mac Donaldson?"
"Right now," the young man said. "That's part of your reward, Chris Parks."
Chapter 17
The interrogation room that Chris and Mac were in appeared to be heavily used, with scuff marks on the walls and one large red stain on the cement floor. For a moment, the pair sized each other up. Mac then reclined into his chair and began nibbling on his thumbnail. Chris guessed the bad habit was a tell. Mac was uncomfortable.
"People keep wanting to poke around in my head like I’m some kind of guinea pig, but they have everything I remember from my days as a processor, so I'm not sure why you're here," Mac said, finishing the job on his nail.
A camera was positioned in a corner to the left, but Chris wasn't concerned about someone watching. The questions he was about to ask would be expected, given what he'd told The Firsts he hoped to gain. However, those inquires would also serve the purpose of confirming whether Irene was telling him the truth or not. "I'm not here to ask you about your rogue processing plant."
Mac sat up and rested his arms on the table. "I find that surprising."
"You may, but the real reason I'm here is to ask if you remember me."
Mac's expression flattened. "So you are here about my 'rogue processing plant'?"
"So you do remember me?" Chris began to pace. It seemed that Irene had told him the truth. He did go to Mac to be processed. But for what purpose? He stopped with his back to Mac. He still wanted to know specifically what Mac had erased. "Give me the details."
Mac didn't respond, causing Chris to turn to face him. He pounded the table once with his fist. "Tell me the details."
"I told you. They have everything I remember. Ask . . . them."
Mac’s unwillingness to talk seemed to indicate that he didn’t want to be videotaped helping him. Could that be because Mac knew him to be a traitor?
After hearing Irene’s story, Chris was unsure of what he thought of The Firsts, so he felt a need to be as cautious as Mac. But he also wanted answers. He decided to continue, but this time, with a softer tone. "I came here wanting to hear it from you, so I'm asking you again to confirm if it's true that I wanted something erased about The Discord."
Mac seemed to consider the question, weighing the consequence of either answering it or not. He then nodded.
Chris dropped into his chair. He tried to imagine being the man who would erase such vital information for an organization to which he was loyal. What kind of man would do such a thing? He looked up at Mac, who seemed to be observing his reaction. "Did I tell you why I wanted those memories erased?" Chris asked.
"Isn't it obvious? You wanted to hide information about where The Discord was located."
"Yes, but why?"
"Why?" Mac shook his head. "All I know is you came to me twice, looking to be processed."
"Twice?"
"Yeah, after the initial processing, you came back and barged into my office, complaining about how it didn't take—that you still remembered things. I've never encountered such a complaint, so I offered you the choice of a refund or a redo. You took the redo."
"So you processed me again?"
"That's what I said. And it's lucky you found me when you did, given that I was on my way to a cabin in the woods to get a little . . . R and R." Mac pointed his thumb at Chris before biting into its nail again.
"Why do you think you needed to process me twice?"
"I don't know. Maybe it was faulty equipment—a glitch of some sort. Who knows? The point is I don't do that kind of thing anymore." Mac raised his voice slightly. "I’m with The Firsts now, and they've treated me quite well. I've been offered a nice house and plenty of food in one of the new locations, so I'm not interested in helping you go down this path of self-discovery. The reason you wanted to be processed in the
first place is you were and still are a traitor." Mac looked back at the camera. "It's as simple as that."
If there was any allegiance left within Mac for The Discord, in how he once erased some of its secrets, it apparently had long since vanished when he was offered the so-called good life with The Firsts.
"Right," Chris uttered, deciding to appear to accept the label that Mac had bestowed on him despite the fact that Mac should have given himself that very same title since he too had erased, from his mind, The Discord’s location. "I came here wanting to hear that directly from you, and I have. Thank you. What I've learned will hopefully keep me from becoming a traitor again."
"I don't know. Once a traitor, always a traitor," Mac taunted.
Chris stomped toward Mac, who must have realized what was coming for he jumped from his seat and stumbled into the corner.
"Now, Chris, let's not 'kill the messenger,'" his commanding officer said as he strolled into the room.
Chris lowered his fist and came to attention.
"Besides, I have a few questions to ask you," he said, grinning. "Sims and Jerry are back."
…
Sims sat up in bed when Chris entered the room with his lieutenant. Sims pointed at Chris and let out a series of curses. Not getting the reaction he'd wanted, he flashed a look at their lieutenant. "He did this to me, sir! He shot me!"
Lieutenant Cunningham put his hands in his coat pockets and walked toward the window. "The doctor said that you will survive."
"With all due respect, sir, that's not the point. Chris is a traitor. He ran off with that woman and allowed her to escape."
Lieutenant Cunningham turned from the view, offering Chris a hint of a smile. He then looked at Sims. "Irene Duncan is in custody. Chris returned her to us. He said you all agreed he should go ahead with Irene since your medical condition was slowing everyone down."
Sims's mouth dropped open. "No, that's not true, sir. Ask Jerry. This guy shot me and helped the woman escape."
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