Psion Gamma

by Jacob Gowans

  “When you first got here, you seemed, well, out of it.”

  “I don’t know. I’m okay. Better than I was.”

  “But still not yourself?” Thomas asked.

  Sammy shook his head.

  “Well, give it time. From what Toad told me, you’ve been through fire and brimstone,” he said with a grandfatherly air. “You must be a real strong boy. I’m sure Walter saw that, too.”

  “Um—thanks.” Sammy looked away while trying to think of a new subject to discuss. “So, why aren’t we picking up anything from the Thirteens?”

  “It’s like sifting sand for gold,” Thomas frowned at the transmission signal. “You might be sifting in the right place, but it takes time even to find a few small kernels.”

  “How does all this stuff work?”

  “Well, we recruited this new lady, Darnee—Marnee—yeah, Marnee . . . or something like that. She’s been working in the communications field all her life. When we located a Thirteen cell, we started planting taps on the nearest BSCs.”

  He saw Sammy’s puzzled expression and smiled as if he had been trying to confuse him. “Sorry, but you should see your face when you don’t understand something. It’s the funniest thing. I can tell you’re not used to it. When you make a call from a com, it goes to a tower and from there to a big box called a Base Station Controller or BSC. That’s the box that does the thinking for the whole system. Marnee, or whatever her name is, has been putting transmitters in these BSCs and the transmitters send us copies of the signals.”

  “That’s a whole lot of calls, right?”

  “No, the transmitters are wired in. They listen for a big list of pertinent words. ‘Thirteen’, ‘NWG’, ‘attack’, stuff like that. Even your name is on there now. If something hits, we pick it up and keep the data file.”

  Thomas’s excitement was visible even in the dim lighting of the tower.

  “And you’re sure we’re looking in the right place?” Sammy asked.

  “We’ve known about the Thirteen building in Orlando for while. I’m pretty certain we can intercept their communications.”

  “Do you know exactly where they’re—the cell is based?”

  “We do now. Using Toad’s information about the building you were kept in, we looked for someone who owned a large office building in both cities. Bada-bing bada-boom! In fact, we’ve managed to locate seven Thirteen cells now. Well . . . seven unconfirmed cells. That’s a pretty big breakthrough, Sammy.”

  “What’s the likelihood of us hearing anything?”

  “Beats me. But at least we’re doing something useful.”

  One of the three red lights turned green, and Sammy hurried to put his headphones back on.

  “Hi, is Robbie there?” a girl’s voice asked.

  “Just a second,” came an older, male voice.

  There was a pause and a “Hello?”

  “Hi Robbie, it’s Keira. Have you looked at our homework? Kaylin and I couldn’t figure out number thirteen—”

  Sammy sighed and listened on. Minutes later he heard a conversation regarding a delayed order for thirteen hundred dollars worth of gym equipment.

  They had another lull in calls. Sammy leaned back in his chair like a seasoned veteran and threw questions at Thomas about the resistance. He listened to a long narrative on the effectiveness of pigeon communication and how Crestan and Henrico were killed.

  “So how did you get involved? When did you join?”

  The bright and animated look on Thomas’s face that always accompanied his enthusiastic stories for the resistance melted away. Sammy instantly wished he hadn’t asked the question.

  “‘For deeds undone rankle and snarl and hunger for their due’,” Thomas muttered solemnly, fiddling with his headset as he spoke. “‘Til there seems naught so despicable as you in all the grin of the sun.’”

  Sammy had no idea what Thomas was talking about, and was about to ask him when Thomas put his headset back on and turned away.

  “I’m getting something on here,” he said as he tapped on his earphones.

  Sammy knew Thomas was lying, but he didn’t call him on it. What did I say that was so offensive?

  Before he could dwell on it too long, he got another call. Their relief came soon after to spell them for a lunch break. Thomas didn’t say anything as he left the room, and during lunch he seemed sullen, even to his wife. Lara gave Sammy an inquisitive glance when her husband was short with her, but Sammy just shrugged. Lunch went by too fast and Sammy was back upstairs in the tower wearing headphones again.

  The day dragged on: a housewife complaining about a defective vacuum, her language so coarse it embarrassed even Sammy. An emergency call from a boy in college asking his dad for money to fix his car. Several boring business calls.

  He let a long sigh go quietly. He did not want Thomas to think he was uninterested.

  Why won’t he talk to me? Sammy wondered. Maybe I should just apologize.

  His light turned green again.

  “Go ahead,” a very deep male voice said. There was a sense of authority that Sammy had heard before. It reminded him of some of the workers at the Grinder, the ones that really got off on ordering people around.

  The second voice had an edge to it, like he was a little nervous. “We crunched the numbers. Three times. We simulated them on multiple programs and reached the same conclusions. You need more people in the operation.”

  Sammy’s ears pricked up at these words.

  “How many do we already have?” the deep voice asked.

  “Sixty at my last count.”

  “What’s the breakdown?”

  “Forty-five Aegis and fifteen Brothers,” came the answer slowly, as if the nervous man had read the numbers from a list. Sammy sat up straight in his chair and gripped the arms tightly. He’d gone from sheer boredom to high alert with one word. Thomas, not looking in Sammy’s direction, did not notice this change.

  “Who thinks we need more?” the authority-voice asked.

  “The entire tactical team.”

  “How many more?”

  “Ten more Brothers. We calculate seventy people in that ratio is the most efficient number to best guarantee success.”

  “What’s the difference?” the voice growled.

  “Based on all our data we see the likelihood rising from seventy-two to ninety-one percent likelihood of success.”

  The deeper voice grumbled in the background. “I’d gamble on that.”

  “With a liberal appraisal we expect thirty Elite and two squadrons of Fourteens.”

  “All on site?”

  “Either at the launch or in the Baikonur control tower.”

  The deep male voice barked, “Have the team run the numbers again and call me.”

  Then the line went blank.

  Sammy took a deep breath. His hands still gripped the arms of his chair. The tips of his fingers had turned bone white. He put the headphones down on the table and tapped Thomas lightly on the shoulder.

  “I think I heard something you might want to hear.”

  Messages were sent out immediately. Days later, a meeting was held. Something about seeing hundreds of people assemble at the Palace helped Sammy understand just how large and well-organized the resistance really was.

  “Won’t having all these people here run the risk of being discovered?” Sammy had asked Thomas as he sent out messages.

  Thomas, who had regained all his optimism and energy the instant he had listened to Sammy’s call, wasn’t worried. “I’ve told you already, this city is tunneled for just such things. Everyone knows to use extreme caution. People still travel through Wichita going all directions.”

  “And you’re still not going to let me in?”

  “Sorry, kiddo,” Thomas said with genuine regret. “Members only.”

  Sammy was beyond annoyed that he couldn’t go to the meeting. But when he saw that Thomas was firm in his decision, he didn’t argue.

  He and Toad deci
ded to use the time to work on Toad’s anomaly. The Palace had a large exercise room, so they went there. Toad was eager to show Sammy some of the stuff he’d been practicing. He had Sammy blast baseballs at him while he deflected them by throwing his own baseballs. While they messed around, they discussed the intercepted transmission and hypothesized what would be done about it.

  Just when Toad was about to show off his shooting skills, Thomas came into the room.

  “Sammy,” he called out from the doorway, “we need you in here.”

  “What about me?” Toad cried out in unmasked jealousy.

  Sammy looked back at his friend apologetically, but was eager to be involved with the meetings. He followed Thomas up to the fourth floor where a large meeting hall was packed with people; men and women of different ages, races, and statures. Many of them were turned facing each other in conversation—so many, in fact, that the sound from the room was a low roar.

  “We spent most of the morning discussing one thing, Sammy,” Thomas told him just outside the hall, “getting you home. I told them you have information about a possible mole in your organization. I also told them it’s a remote but real possibility that there are Psions in CAG territory searching for you. They’ve heard the intercepted conversation between the Thirteen cell in Orlando and the tactical team. So everyone in there knows that it’s important we get you back. The only question now is whether they’ll be talked out of it.”

  “How? What do you mean?”

  Thomas put a hand on Sammy’s back and steered him into the hall.

  The instant the door closed behind them, the chatting in the hall stopped, heads whipped around in Sammy’s direction, and every last member of the audience rose to his or her feet. Someone, somewhere began clapping; two strong, sturdy hands rhythmically pounding into each other. Another pair joined them. Then two more pairs. Like rainfall transforming from a gentle shower into a mighty storm, the hall erupted in applause and cheers.

  Thomas’s hand fell on Sammy’s shoulder. The old man leaned over to whisper in his ear: “They’re standing because of you. For what you represent.”

  For a long time Sammy just stood there, rooted to that spot just inside the door. He looked into the eyes of the resistance as they looked back at him, cheering and clapping. It must have gone on for minutes.

  At that moment in his life, he understood what it meant: the oath he had taken, the battles he had fought and might yet fight. In that room, with all those people, it all made sense. Sammy knew why he was a Psion.

  Another hand on his other shoulder pushed him forward. As he walked toward the few chairs that faced the crowd, the noise came to a crescendo and held there. Sammy put up a hand and awkwardly waved in acknowledgement of their praise, then sat down.

  Slowly the applause died down.

  Thomas stood up to speak. “I think Sammy’s a little overwhelmed.”

  Polite laughter rippled through the resistance members.

  “I think I’ve taken up enough of the morning explaining why I believe we need to get Sammy back home—whether we can reach out to the NWG or just get him there ourselves. However, I promised our ombudsman some time to speak his mind and give his thoughts on the matter. So let’s hear from him.”

  The ombudsman sat in a chair on the opposite side of Thomas. He was a tall, thinly-built man wearing a respectable business suit. His dark hair was thinning on the top and graying on the sides. He had all the signs and lines of a chronic smoker. As he spoke, he licked his lips often.

  “About eleven years ago, most of our organization broke down because of unneeded risks. We lost over ninety percent of our manpower and many of our properties. It was a huge setback. Since then, we’ve been on a course of extreme caution. We haven’t done much to advance our cause other than collect data, move people into strategic positions of opportunity, and grow our numbers again. That strategy has worked, I believe. We’ve gone from three hundred members to almost two thousand.

  “I think we need to ask ourselves several questions before voting on these decisions. First, are we sure we want to attempt to steal a ship? Thomas has suggested looking at Offutt as the site for the caper. This may possibly bring on unwanted attention. Do we want to risk lives—manpower—if things should turn ugly? Next, is there an easier way to contact the NWG to inform them of what we’ve discovered? Thomas suggested our member in Los Angeles who works with GNN. He’s referring, some of you probably know, to Ty Robbins. We have few people as well placed as he. We all need to ask ourselves this question: is what Thomas has proposed too risky or even counterproductive?”

  “In what way is it counterproductive, Doug?” Thomas didn’t look happy as he spoke. In fact, he looked downright pissed off. “We sent people down to the old Rio compound to investigate. They found plenty of evidence to suggest someone had been there looking for Sammy!”

  Doug licked his lips twice more before responding. “Well, you know, we’re not absolutely certain how important this operation is. Is it worth risking exposure to what we’re doing here? Is it worth putting the lives of many people at risk. I’m not against striking out if this is worth it, but we need to be sure it is.”

  Thomas spoke again. “Come on, Doug, you heard the recording!”

  Doug turned briefly to Thomas. “Please, it’s my turn to speak. You’ve had your say.”

  Thomas became silent, but seemed to take great effort in doing so. Sammy could sense something of a rift between the two men.

  “Are we overreacting?” Doug added. “I don’t know. We’ve worked very hard to build ourselves back up since the CAG caught, tortured, and killed so many of us. We must make sure that we’re practicing both prudence and responsible resistance.”

  A general murmur broke out in the crowd. Thomas looked at Sammy and shook his head.

  “So let’s stop yammering and take a vote!” he called out over the noise, which grew quiet at the sound of his voice. Sammy smiled to himself as he remembered the way Commander Byron could take control over a large group.

  “We’ll vote on both items separately. If either item passes with popular consent we’ll form a committee of seven to determine how it will be carried out. All in favor of attempting contact with people who might be searching for Sammy say ‘aye.’”

  A loud burst of ‘ayes’ rang across the room. Sammy was almost positive it had been unanimous.

  “Any opposed with ‘nay.’”

  There were no ‘nays.’

  “That decision passes unanimously. All in favor of stealing a cruiser for Sammy to fly home say ‘aye.’”

  This time there were noticeably less ‘ayes’ from the crowd. Sammy saw Doug had not voiced in favor. Thomas looked both nervous and disappointed at the response.

  “All those opposed?”

  A similar sound of ‘nays’ echoed.

  “The vote is undetermined.” He shot a glance at Sammy. “I motion for a hand vote.”

  “Seconded,” Doug said from his chair.

  “Then let’s have a show of hands.”

  This time members of the leadership counted hands. The total was one hundred eighty seven for, and one hundred thirty seven against.

  The motion passed.

  Late that night, Sammy sat in a room with seven members of the resistance. One of the seven was Doug, the ombudsman. He told Thomas if the resistance was going to go through with the crazy notion of stealing a cruiser, he wanted to be on the committee to plan it. Things around the Palace were manic with people scrambling everywhere to get stuff done. No one really knew what the timetable was for the CAG’s impending attack on Baikonur, or what it really meant, but the decision was that the sooner they acted to prevent it the better.

  Thomas roamed between the two committees trying to keep everyone on task. Permanently attached to his hand all night was a steaming mug of what smelled to Sammy like hot chocolate. When Thomas came back into the room to check on the “Cruiser Caper Committee,” as he dubbed it, he was beaming.


  “We’ve wrapped up plans for the GNN message. Ty says it will go out on the morning broadcast. If Walter is looking for Sammy in Rio or wherever, he should get the message.”

  “How’s it going to happen?” Doug asked.

  “Ty’s slipping it into the prompt. Says he’ll claim they were hacked. It’s happened before.”

  “Won’t the news producers see it on the prompt and stop the feed?” Doug wondered aloud.

  “No. GNN uses those—what do you call them—contact prompts. Puts the prompts right in front of the eye. They won’t know it’s coming until it comes out of the newscaster’s mouth.”

  Dr. Vogt spoke up next. “We’ve already taken precautions in case something goes awry. His family is on the way here as we speak, and he’ll be joining them as soon as he’s loaded the prompt. If it all blows over, he’ll go back to work.”

  Doug nodded, satisfied.

  “And this will be heard all over the continent?” Sammy asked.

  “All over North and South America,” Thomas answered. “We’re banking on the idea that if they’re here, they’re watching the news. If so, they meet us at Offutt and pick him up. If not, he flies himself and Toad out.”

  “Fine. What’s the message?” Doug asked.

  “You’ll love it, Sammy,” Thomas chuckled as he pulled a handwritten draft out of his shirt pocket. He cleared his throat dramatically and read: “An Omaha librarian searching through antique books found an unpublished and unread poem co-written by Walt Whitman and Lord Byron titled ‘The Brains of Samuel’. Scholars say it is the first of its kind, and if testing confirms its authenticity, it’s estimated worth would be in the millions. It will be flown out of Omaha early Friday morning to the Smithsonian Institute for age analysis and verification.”

  Sammy laughed hard when he heard it, but Doug didn’t seem sold. “How on earth is that going to clue anybody to anything?”

  Thomas explained, “Anyone who knows my son knows who he was named after. And anyone who bothers to fact-check it will know that Lord Byron died when Walt Whitman was five years old.”

  Doug smiled broadly. “And Whitman wasn’t a prodigy like Mozart, was he?”