“The file was empty,” Taylor countered. “I didn’t steal any secrets. You’ve got me on breaking and entering. The worst you can do is lock me up and throw away the key.”
“Do you really believe that?” the agent replied. “No one outside the top brass knows what goes on at Groom Lake. Do you really think we can’t just make you disappear?”
“Look.” Taylor tried to appeal to the man’s logic. “If I knew much about Churchdoor, I wouldn’t have been snooping around, now, would I?”
Unimpressed, the agent reached into the attaché case and extracted a photograph.
“Why don’t we talk about Aysa, then.”
Taylor was confused. “Who?”
“Your girlfriend.” The agent held his cigarette in his teeth and brought the 8x10 glossy around to give him a good look. “Aysa Alexeyeva,” he said. While the name was insane, the picture was all too familiar. “Sometimes goes by the name of Stewart, Maryann,” he prodded, “Lieutenant.”
Taylor said nothing.
CRACK! The agent’s fist smashed against Taylor’s eye. The force tipped the chair and he crashed backward to the floor.
“Let’s try again.” The agent extinguished his half-smoked cigarette in the water glass. He reached around the table and foraged in his case. “Maybe you’re not so good with names.” Finding his smokes, he lit a new one before producing a file full of pictures.
“I’m talking about the good-time girl.” He threw the photos at the prone Taylor, one by one. They sailed by, landing on and around him. His eye beginning to swell, Taylor strained to see what they were—pictures of his and Maryann’s indiscretions. They had even set up cameras in her quarters.
“The double agent who you’ve been screwing,” the agent taunted. “Remember her now?”
Taylor scoffed. “She’s no Red.”
“Isn’t she?” The agent shuffled through his file folders. “I’ve got a folder full of intel that says different.” He began placing paperwork on the table. “Intercepted transmissions from the KGB. Looks like her cosmonaut pals are going to ambush Juno and take Dr. Hasslein’s new toys away.” He tsked. “She wanted Churchdoor before Juno left, but I guess you didn’t move fast enough for her.”
The agent looked up into Taylor’s eyes. “Or did you?” he asked.
“Go to hell.”
“Why were you in Daddy’s office?”
Taylor smirked. “I thought I left my ball there.”
The agent frowned. “…in the file cabinet?”
“That’s where he hides his nudie mags,” Taylor insisted. “I was curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, Major.” The agent leaned in again. “Are you now,” he asked, “or have you ever been, a member of the Communist party?”
“This is all bullshit.” Taylor was becoming angry. “Stewart is no commie and neither am I.” She’s a hippie, he mused silently, but no commie.
“Alright, then.” The agent pressed pause on the recording tape deck and nodded. The two men in the corners moved forward. The big one lifted Taylor’s chair and sat him upright. The little guy placed a box on the table.
“Is it lunchtime already?” Taylor asked.
The agent pulled out an electrical generator of sorts, using parts from an old-fashioned crank telephone. The motor was connected to two dry battery cells, and had wires spooling off of it to be attached to something—or someone—else.
“They call it a Tucker phone,” he said. “A little project they developed in an Arkansas state prison.” The agent rummaged through the box. “See, we attach the ground wire to your big toe, uh…” He held aloft one of the wires. “This one.” He reached for the second wire, which had a clamp on the end of it.
“Then we attach the hot wire somewhere else on you—usually someplace nasty.” He let that sink in before finishing, “And the circuit is complete.” Then he nodded to his thugs. “Let’s give him a taste.” One man held Taylor’s chair in place while the other wrapped the ground wire around his toe. Struggling nonetheless, he was helpless.
“We’ll start easy on you,” he promised Taylor. “Do his finger first,” he ordered. The small man on the left extended Taylor’s index finger and clipped the hot wire to it.
“We don’t want to damage the family jewels—at least not on our first night out, do we?”
“You son of a—”
The goon on the right rammed a stick in between Taylor’s teeth and secured it with tape.
“Just so you don’t bite your tongue off.” The agent readied the crank. “You wouldn’t be able to tell us much then, would you?” He paused and said again, “What do you know about Churchdoor?”
Silent, Taylor just stared. The agent shrugged.
“We’ll make a local call.”
The dial cranked.
The hairs on George’s arm rose. Then the current seized him. Thunder punched him in the ribs. His chest constricted, Taylor’s arm blazed. Needles seared inside him. He bit deep into wood, and splinters cracked off in his mouth.
After what seemed like forever, there was release. Heaving, Taylor lolled his head to one side.
“Who is your contact in the KGB?” the agent demanded.
Taylor mumbled something.
“What was that?”
He muttered again, louder but still indiscernible. The agent nodded to his goons. The big man tore the tape from his mouth. Taylor spit the stick out onto the floor, gasping for breath.
“Now”—the agent sat down at the table and pressed record again on the tape deck—“you were going to tell me who your contact is.”
“Taylor, George. Major, United States Air Force, special detachment to American National Space Administration. Service number 0109047818.” He said it once, he said it calm, and he said it quiet. The agent shook his head.
“Let’s try a long-distance call, then.”
The intercom squawked. “Alright, that’s enough.”
Instantly he recognized the voice—it was his father. The door opened to reveal a silhouetted figure, but not of the admiral. It was a man in a suit one size too small for him.
“You’re relieved, agents,” Hasslein said.
The two goons cut George’s ropes and disconnected him from the torture device. The silver-haired agent came around the front and extended his hand.
“No hard feelings,” he said.
Taylor grabbed the man’s arm as if to use it to stand. Instead, he tugged, threw him off balance, and flipped him over his shoulder. The agent slammed to the floor behind him.
Fists up, Taylor whirled, ready to take on the others. As the men moved in, Hasslein held up a hand to intervene.
“Gentlemen, I believe we have had enough violence for today,” he said, then he turned to Taylor. “Wouldn’t you agree, Major?”
Taylor nodded and backed down. The two men helped the agent to his feet. Nursing a bloody nose, he nodded respectfully to the man who had been his prisoner.
“It was a pleasure, sir.”
Taylor said nothing. The three men left.
Hasslein used a handkerchief to clean the ashes out of the glass and quickly poured Taylor some fresh water. He hesitated. The doctor smiled and took a sip himself.
“George. It is not drugged and this is no longer an interrogation. We are just having a chat.” It was the first time Hasslein had ever called him by his first name. Taylor accepted the water and drank greedily. It was warm and it was stale but it was good. When the glass was empty, he rasped one word.
“Why?”
“Because of your extracurricular activities.” Otto produced a silver case from his suit pocket. Taylor accepted a cigarette from the tin. Hasslein lit it and then one for himself. “Fraternization, reckless endangerment, destruction of U.S. property—not to mention the aforementioned breaking and entering.” Hasslein exhaled. “The admiral wanted to be sure that you were serious about the job, despite your penchant for risk.”
Chomping on the cigarette, Taylor rubbed his ra
w wrists and looked to the door.
“Where is the old man?” he asked. “After all this, don’t I warrant a visit?”
“He saw everything he needed to, and sent me to convey his apologies—he has a call to make to the Pentagon.”
“He set me up,” Taylor growled.
“And true to form, you took the bait.” Hasslein took another drag. “We needed to be certain of your loyalties before advancing you to the next phase.”
“The next phase?”
“My calculations for Project Liberty have shown that there are consequences to traveling near the speed of light. While centuries will pass in the outside world, the ship’s crew will only age a few months.” Instantly Taylor saw where Hasslein was going. There would be no coming back to any home.
“Liberty is a one-way ticket.”
“Indeed,” Hasslein affirmed. “And that’s assuming you make it back at all. You might find yourself colonizing a new world.” His smoldering cigarette tapped the untouched ashtray. “The man in charge of such a mission will need to be one who can make hard choices. A man of integrity, who isn’t afraid of the unknown.”
“Or a man who’s a troublemaker,” Taylor said wryly. “Someone who asks too many questions.” He thought to himself, A man that the bigwigs want out of the way.
Hasslein reached into his suit pocket and produced a small package. “Not coincidentally, your father asked me to pass this on to you. Congratulations.” He opened the box to reveal a pair of silver eagle pins. “Colonel Taylor.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Taylor scoffed. “Uncle Sam tortures me as a test of loyalty, and then buys me off with a pay rise?” Taylor shook his head. “I ought to walk the hell out of here right now.”
“You could do that,” Hasslein admitted. “No one would stop you, but it would be a shame, and a waste of potential.” The doctor placed the pins on the table in front of Taylor. “It’s my understanding that the rank of colonel clears you for classified information.”
Churchdoor.
“What about Stewart?” Taylor tapped the desk. “How’s she involved in all this?”
“An inquisitive woman, for certain—but a communist spy?” Hasslein pondered. “I sincerely doubt it.” The doctor dashed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Her interest in Churchdoor is the same as yours. Concern and curiosity.”
“Should we be concerned, Doctor,” he asked, “or just curious?”
“Perhaps both.” Hasslein smiled. “Or perhaps neither, Colonel.”
Taylor thought about what he’d found in the folder.
“What do alpha and omega mean, Doctor?”
“That would certainly depend on context, Colonel.” Hasslein’s eyes locked on Taylor’s. “I know Revelations, 22:12–13. ‘Behold, I am coming quickly, and My reward is with Me, to render to every man according to what he has done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.’” He pressed the intercom and called for the nurse before addressing Taylor again.
“Let them look you over, then rest.” Hasslein stood to leave. “In the morning the admiral and I will introduce you to Churchdoor.” He paused in the doorway. “If, of course, you are still interested.”
George looked at the glistening eagles on the table. Little stars flickered in their shine.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not.”
* * *
This gets us nowhere, the fat man reflected.
Mr. Taylor is no stranger to torture, Ongaro responded. His mind is steeled against it.
Perhaps there are other ways to motivate him, Albina suggested. If Mr. Taylor were exposed to the true meaning of the universe, he might better understand our peaceful ways.
You are considering conversion, Caspay sent. Only descendants of the Bomb may become one with us. It has been centuries since the Fellowship took new members into the fold.
For centuries, there has been no one, she countered.
Adiposo cocked an eyebrow. Yes, but can a primitive even comprehend God?
There is only one way to know for certain, Ongaro noted. All eyes fell on their leader. His thoughts no one’s but his own, His Holiness simply nodded His approval.
* * *
A beaten Taylor was crumpled on the floor below. Above him, a flurry of deets shot back and forth. The inquisitors were talking—thinking—amongst themselves.
Deciding what to do with me next, he reckoned. Gasping for air, he was thankful for the reprieve. His mind was spinning—they had been close to breaking him. Close, he reminded himself, but no cigar.
With a prolonged deet two guards entered from the tracks to the left and right. They helped the astronaut to his feet. Taylor didn’t fight them.
“Giving up already?” Taylor taunted his inquisitors. “That the best you’ve got?”
Tell us, Mr. Taylor, Caspay responded, is your soul at peace?
“Excuse me?”
“Are you prepared to meet God?” Albina asked aloud.
To Taylor, that sounded an awful lot like a death threat.
“So you can talk.”
“All things are possible in the eyes of God,” Mendez XXVI replied. He nodded to the guards. Take him.
As Taylor stood on his own, and prepared to move, the two lackeys fell in behind him. The astronaut feigned compliance just long enough for the mutant entourage to drop their defenses. Then he sucker-punched the one on the right, spinning the dazed mutant into his partner. Then one kick sent them both sprawling.
Stop him! Adiposo demanded.
Taylor ran for the exit, flinging the doors open. The startled guard on the other side was too slow, and Taylor chopped him on the shoulder. As the mutant went down, the astronaut smashed his knee into the man’s face. Then he sprinted down a hallway flanked with busts on both sides. He slowed slightly, realizing that all of the faces were the same—Mendez. Their eyes seemed to bore into him, passing judgment on his irreverence.
The doors at the far end slid open. There, another two guards were waiting. He couldn’t turn back, and the way forward was blocked. He had to move and it needed to be swift. Picking up speed, he hurled into a jump kick and hit the first mutant in the solar plexus. The man flopped like a catfish gasping for water, but the second guard clutched at Taylor’s foot and whirled.
He spun in midair. Face first, the astronaut went down. This mutant was bigger than the others. An instant later he had Taylor pinned, his huge hands holding him down. Twisting around to face him, Taylor shoved at the man’s face.
The guard’s flesh was cold.
Dead.
Worse than that, his face moved. The man’s skin skewed and slid. Taylor clawed at it, to no effect. With no options remaining, he pushed his finger deep into the mutant’s eye. The guard yelped and pulled back. Taylor positioned his leg and planted a foot on the man’s chest, then heaved.
The guard flew, but the astronaut’s finger had become hooked in the eye hole of the mutant’s rubbery epidermis. The entire face peeled off with a snap, remaining in Taylor’s hand. Exposed, the mutant’s features were raw muscle and sinew, bloodless and purple. His face was crisscrossed with a web of veins and arteries.
Taylor had seen countless atrocities in his two wars. He had witnessed men mutilated and brutalized, but the only thing he’d ever seen like this was in an anatomy book—never on a living man.
Is he alive? Taylor wondered, still grasping the skin. Did I kill him? It was a mask of some sort—cold and lifeless. It wasn’t quite latex and it wasn’t quite skin. Not as clumsy or crude as the plastic film ANSA used to seal wounds. It was a synthetic flesh of a sort he had never encountered—almost real, but a lie.
The horror of a man clambered back to his feet, faceless and unfazed. One eye sealed, he reached for the astronaut. Taylor threw the mask at him, and as the synthetic flesh slapped across the mutant’s visage, he crawled to his feet.
That familiar buzzing flooded his mind as the mutant masters tried to regain control of him. He woul
dn’t give them a chance. Desperate for a weapon, he turned to the nearest effigy—the plaque said Mendez I. As Taylor’s own flesh touched the platinum-plated bust, a static shock leapt at his fingertips. Flashes of the past seized his mind.
A past that was not his own.
CHAPTER 25
EMPIRE STATE AND REVOLUTION
He stood on 50th Street and Fifth Avenue, nearly two millennia ago. Before him loomed St. Patrick’s. The cathedral was worse for wear, but strangely intact compared to the decimated ruins around it. Manhattan was underground. Little light filtered down through fissures far above, a radioactive luminance that, if not blocked by a rubble of heavy metals, would surely kill.
Disheveled men and women wandered around, dressed in tattered twentieth-century garb. They wore styles Taylor wasn’t aware of, but which still resembled the clothing he knew back home. Collars here were smaller and haircuts were shorter. They were ahead of his time, but not that far—perhaps a few decades.
These were conscripted workers. Prisoners of some kind. They flowed up the stairs, and into the church. Taylor was swept into their current. As he approached the giant portal, men in military uniforms stopped him. They carried assault rifles more advanced than the M16A1s that were being issued when he left—shorter and lighter.
A torrent of fear seized him.
“Stay back!” A voice resounded in his skull. “No outsiders. These orders come from General Mendez himself!”
The soldiers slammed the door shut.
“Church door,” the voice said. “Fear the church door.”
* * *
Further back. A decade before. The rock above him melted away, leaving a clear blue sky in its wake.
Then war was declared, a first strike incoming. A military train diverted to Grand Central Terminal. Soldiers on board guarded the precious assets it carried. Missiles struck Long Island. New Jersey. Triggered the fault line. The ground gave way.
Trapped in a void between two shifted tectonic plates, the city folded over itself. Lava flowed. Radiation burned. Countless died.
Darkness returned.
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