by Sean Platt
“I’m sorry,” I say to them both.
Lindsay doesn’t look at me. I can feel a defensiveness rising, Rich’s emotions still stirring inside, a part of him that wants to argue, Hey, I came, and we finished lunch. It’s not my fault that I’m getting called in. These aren’t exactly people you can say no to. Just ask Brooke.
“Why do you have to go in?” Emily asks.
“I don’t know. I guess it’s something big. He said ‘all hands on deck.’”
Emily looks like I murdered her goldfish. “So does that mean no ice cream?”
I look at Lindsay, gathering the basket and blanket, then turn back to my little girl and her wounded eyes. “We can still get ice cream. He can wait a few minutes longer.”
That seems to make her happy.
I wish Lindsay were as easy.
* * * *
CHAPTER 6
After ice cream, and twenty minutes of unsuccessfully trying to conjure a way out of going to work, I drive the family back home then swap the minivan for Rich’s Audi, and head to the complex.
My stomach is full of butterflies as I get closer to AD and contemplate what might be in store.
What if they’re calling everyone in only to root out the Jumper? What if they have some automated scanner that can detect me? Even if they don’t, Fairchild already spotted me once, which means he probably can again. Maybe there’s more like him. Hell, the assassin Jumper recognized me a few times, so obviously there’s some way to see through the host to the person in the driver’s seat.
What if all of the assassins are there, awaiting my arrival? What if the Collectors are waiting to claim my soul, to once and for all end this limbo? Then it’s not just Rich’s life in danger, but mine.
I’m not ready to die, especially considering that I don’t even remember my life before now or who I might be leaving behind. You’d think it’d be easier to die with no known connections. But leaving life behind without knowing who you were or who you might be abandoning seems somehow even worse.
After getting waved through by the guard at the gate, I park in the garage. There are only a few cars, so I guess all hands on deck means key personnel only.
Or maybe I’m walking right into a trap.
I get out of the car and head toward the main building, my stomach a ball of coiled nerves, all raw below my racing heart.
I push my way through the front doors and am greeted by Fairchild, who is standing in that same ridiculous white suit, with four armed officers.
I look around the lobby for others, but it’s only me, Fairchild, and four armed men.
My mind screams, Get out!!
“Hello, Director,” I say, hoping he can’t see through to me.
“Hello, Rich. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m personally screening everyone following yesterday’s intrusion.”
“Sure.” My heart pounds in my throat.
He holds out his hand and asks for my pistol.
Can he already tell?
I do my best not to pause, drawing my weapon from its holster and handing it over without hesitation. He gives it to one of the officers standing behind him.
“Okay, Rich, I want you to stand there, hands on your head.”
Shit. They’re going to cuff me and throw me in some hole with Collectors to devour my soul.
“Sure,” I say, trying not to appear nervous. Hell, he doesn’t even need to be psychic to sense my rapid pulse, the cold sweat dripping down my back, or the heat I can feel on my face.
He smiles and steps closer, now only inches away. When I was in Brooke’s body, he was looking down on me. Now I’m in a body about three inches taller than him, so he’s looking up, but his gaze is no less intimidating.
I can’t shake the feeling that he’s staring through the disguise, right at me.
I meet the man’s eyes, resisting the urge for any nervous banter that might give me away. If he’s got me, he’s got me. No need to make it any easier on him.
Fairchild stares into my eyes for an uncomfortably long time.
I brace for the attack that’s surely coming.
“Relax,” he says, his eyes still locked onto mine. “You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”
Shit. I don’t know how to answer. Humor might be the best approach, but what if it gives me away?
I answer straight-faced, hopefully not displaying my raw fear. “No, sir.”
“Good. I’d hate to lose another solid agent.”
He hasn’t told me to lower my hands, and I’m not sure what’s happening. Is it taking him this long to read me, or is he playing games before siccing his guards on me?
He raises his hand fast and I flinch.
Shit!
He smiles, gently putting his hand on my arm. “It’s okay. You can lower them.”
I do, though it’s impossible to relax.
If he saw me yesterday, why can’t he see me now? And even if he can’t, there’s no way he missed that flinch. But maybe that isn’t an abnormal reaction given that he shot my co-worker yesterday.
“So, did I pass your test? You’re not gonna shoot me?”
“Yes, Rich, you pass. I hope you understand our need for precaution.”
“Sure.” I want to ask so many questions, but I need to be careful. I’m not sure everything that Rich knows about this operation, and the wrong words will reveal me as an imposter. “What’s up? Why did you call us in? Where are the others?”
“Upstairs, getting started. Did you think we’d wait for you?”
“No, sir,” I say. “What is this? A new development with The First Front?”
“You could say that. But I need to show you something before your debriefing.”
Fairchild walks towards the elevators. I follow like a trained dog.
He doesn’t say a word as we step in the elevator, nor as it descends. The silence is deafening inside this big box, its black metal walls, thick enough to withstand a bomb seemingly closing in on me.
I still can’t shake the feeling that he knows I’m in here and that I’m being decisively led into a trap.
What can I do if I am? They’ve already taken my gun.
I covertly assess my surroundings, searching for an escape. There’s a hatch above, but the elevator is tall, and I’d need to jump at least three feet to reach it. I'm not sure if Rich’s body will provide that level of athleticism.
I look at Director Fairchild. He’s a thin man, but he doesn’t seem weak. Hard to tell under his suit. It’s also difficult to see if he’s packing heat beneath his jacket, which I could maybe grab and use to escape.
I probe Rich’s memories to determine if Fairchild is right or left-handed so I can figure which side of the jacket his weapon might be holstered, but I’m not getting anything useful.
I’m hoping I still have some of the fighting skills I’d picked up from my stint in Vinnie’s body. I assume that Rich also has extensive combat training, though nothing comes to mind.
The elevator halts with a hollow THUMP, then the doors hiss open to a narrow room and another security checkpoint with a pair of double red doors and another four officers.
This is where he’s bringing me to draw me out or feed me to the Collectors.
Fairchild exits the elevator.
I stay put, my mind racing with possible scenarios, all of them awful. Part of me wants to hit the Close Door button then head back up and run for my life.
But there’s no way I’d escape. Someone would stop the box and trap me inside. Or they’d have an army waiting on the top floor to grab me.
Rich is dead either way.
Maybe I’m dead either way.
Fairchild looks back at me. “Forget something?”
He asks like he’s toying with me, as if he knows exactly who I am and is leading me deeper and deeper into his trap.
“Just trying to remember the name of those dolls Emily likes so I can pick one up after I get out of here, to make up for leaving in the middle of our picn
ic.”
I step off the elevator.
Fairchild frowns. He isn’t a man who takes kindly to being reminded of your sacrifices. To people like him, the job is the most important thing, period. Or at least it should be to anyone “lucky” enough to work at AD.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he says.
I follow him to the security station, then we both place our palms on a panel before being permitted through the doors.
We step into a cavernous all-black room, with a giant black metal column rising from the center, its top vanishing into the dark ceiling some forty feet above.
The column is part of a massive computer system which serves as the backbone of the entire facility. Dozens of coal-colored hoses run from the column into the back of a large coal colored metal chair sitting in the center of the room, holding a young redheaded girl in a dull blue jumpsuit.
Her eyes are closed, moving rapidly beneath the lids. Her hands are splayed, palms down, onto the arms of the chair — lit with touch screens that seem to be reading her twitching fingers.
More hoses lead from the sides of the chair into circular recesses in the floor.
Rich has only heard about this room. And the girl isn’t ringing any bells.
Yes, it feels familiar. Like I’ve been here before.
And she feels familiar, like a ghost from a past life.
The doors whisper shut behind us as we walk deeper into the room.
Fairchild is silent, his footsteps echoing on the highly polished black floor.
I feel like he’s testing me, trying to make me slip and reveal my true identity.
Finally, Fairchild speaks, his hands folded before him as he looks up at the computer. “It’s something, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say, cautiously.
“You’ve never been here before, have you, Rich?”
“No,” I say, hoping I’m right. “So, what brings us here today? Is this the urgent thing you needed us for?”
“No. No, it’s not. And I do have a confession.”
Oh, no. Here it comes.
“I sent the others home.”
“Why?” I already know and am hoping I’m wrong.
“Because they weren’t you, Ella.”
I should know better than to hope.
There’s no point in lying. He can obviously see things that most people can’t.
“You don’t remember this room, or even Eden?”
“I told you, I don’t remember anything before a year ago.”
He looks at me, head cocked. “So you’ve said.”
“And you still don’t believe me?”
“I’m not sure what to believe.”
“So why bring me here? Are you going to kill another of your agents, even though they’ve done nothing to you?”
“I brought you here to see if we can’t solve your problem.”
“What problem?”
“Remembering.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“Well, I got to thinking about wasted opportunities last night. I have this,” he waves his hands at either the girl in the chair, Eden, or the massive computer, I’m not sure which, “and I didn’t even think to use it.”
“What is this?”
“You still haven’t figured it out?”
“Obviously not.”
He speaks louder, “Eden, eject Cylinder seven.”
“Yes, Mr. Fairchild,” the girl’s mouth says, her eyes remaining closed.
There’s a hiss from beside me as one of the circles attached to a hose fills with light. Then something slowly rises from the floor — a long glass cylindric chamber, revealing either a sleeping or comatose woman inside, bathed in a crimson glow, a mask over her eyes, body strapped in place by metal bands.
“Project Karma Police. Still no bells?”
I lie, shaking my head, staring at the young woman. She’s in her twenties, with short brown hair and pale skin. She’s wearing an institutional-looking shirt and pants, which appear blue, but it’s hard to tell with the red tinted chamber. Her garb reminds me of a mental patient, or perhaps a prisoner.
“How odd that you can’t remember the program that you and your father were so involved with.”
I walk around the cylinder, put my hand to the metal. It’s cold and smooth to the touch. A memory triggers, me stepping into one of the chambers, but it's gone before I can examine it further.
“Is she in a coma?”
“No. Merely sedated.”
I look around at the hoses. More than two dozen leading to circular impressions in the ground, more cylinders imprisoning additional Jumpers. “How many are there?”
He doesn’t answer.
I wonder if Chelsea is only inches below in one of these cylinders. If so, how can I find — and rescue —her?
I try a different question. “Who are they?”
“Pilots and co-pilots, working together for a worthy cause.”
“What cause?”
“Have you ever wondered why bad things happen to good people? Why a bomb goes off in a cafe killing dozens? Why a shooter enters a school and murders innocent teachers and students? Why terrorists fly planes into The Twin Towers? Why a pregnant mother driving to work is hit by a truck, killing both her and her unborn baby?”
“Because the world is a terrible place?”
“What if these things didn’t have to happen? What if we could stop them? Not all of them, but the ones that produce the most ripples?”
“Ripples?”
“Every event creates ripples which then affect other events, sometimes building towards something catastrophic. What if the bomb didn’t go off in a cafe? Maybe one of the victims goes on to cure cancer. Or what if the planes didn’t fly into the towers? Perhaps we wouldn’t have gone to war, spending billions, losing so many lives, soldiers and civilians. Maybe half the Middle East wouldn’t hate us, and we wouldn’t have emboldened more groups to rise. Every action triggers another, and even the smallest ripple from a rock thrown into a pond can have a seismic impact. But what if we could catch that rock before it ever hits the water?”
He points to the girl in the chair.
“This is Eden, the world’s first psychic Artificial Intelligence.”
“She’s not real?”
“Oh, she’s quite real.”
“I mean human.”
He’s quiet for a moment as if considering the question for the first time.
“She’s a cyborg. You don’t remember her?”
I shake my head.
“Eden can not only see trends and predictive patterns long before anybody, or anything, else, but she’s not bound by our fears or limitations. Eden is helping to shape a better tomorrow. To finally make things right. Claim control of our fate rather than being at the mercy of chaos.”
What he’s saying seems impossible, yet I’m practically thrown off balance by an overwhelming sense of familiarity and truth. “What am I in all of this?”
“You were one of the first. One of the best.”
“First what?”
“Jumpers. Psychics have been able to see the future for hundreds of years, maybe longer. But how can you control the game when you can’t control the players? Enter Jumpers, people who can travel outside of their bodies and take over others. Paired with psychic co-pilot remote viewers, and Eden leading the entire thing, we’re no longer powerless to change the future. We can target key people and mitigate the ripples.”
“By killing people?”
“So you do remember?”
“I’m getting bits and pieces.”
I don’t remember anything new. I’m going on what I’ve already learned from the one assassin to help me, but I play along to keep him talking.
“It’s not just about killing. Sometimes it’s about preventing a death. Other times it’s about being in the right place at the right time, being in the body of a politician about to cast an important vote, or in the shad
owy rooms of the power brokers working to destabilize other countries. But mostly it’s as simple as making sure someone doesn’t miss a flight or preventing two people from meeting. You’d be surprised how little ripples turn into big waves. Each action we take is sowing the seeds for a better tomorrow.”
“Wow, that sounds like an advertising slogan.”
“The point is, Ella, we do good things. But sometimes you must do something bad to achieve something good.”
“Like killing your own agents?”
Fairchild’s smile fades. His brow furrows again. “That was an unfortunate event.”
“And I take it your A.I. child didn’t tell you that was going to happen?”
He stares at me, unamused by my sarcasm.
“So why are you telling me all these things now? You were interrogating me before. You killed your agent when I wouldn’t talk. Now you’re telling me everything. Why?”
“Because I believe that you really are lost, and can’t remember. You’d be here with us if you could, helping Eden and our Jumpers.”
“Helping you what, kill people?”
“No. To stop The First Front. To protect our kind from the coming war.”
“What war?”
“A war between the past and the future. A war which The First Front are on the wrong side of. A war that you were helping us to win.”
“Who are The First Front?”
“A group of Deviants who work to undermine us every step of the way. They don’t believe in our cause.”
“What do they believe in?”
“Chaos. Instability. They want to rise up and destroy humanity as it is. They poison Deviants against mankind. Their Jumpers are working actively against us, killing people we’re trying to save, and saving those we’re trying to kill. To put it simply, they’re terrorists recruiting Deviants to their cause.”
“Are they terrorists because they don’t buy your agenda?”
“No, they’re terrorists because they think humanity is expendable. Because they are working to create a worldwide extinction event to eliminate humans once and for all while allowing Deviants to survive.”
Worldwide extinction event?
Those three words are a punch to the gut.
Fairchild’s face is dead serious.
“How do you know you’re right?”
