And there it was. Not with words, but more with feelings and half-images flitting through his mind, the voice spoke up from somewhere inside him with an answer. He understood. He didn’t have time to question whether the idea was sound. It simply felt right, and he acted.
Focusing on the chrono controls in his vision, Winston recalled arriving at the Area X gate with younger Devlin Bledsoe and Theo. He didn’t immediately know the time from that moment to his first jump backward in time, but twenty-four hours should be safe. There would be fewer people in the complex.
As he concentrated on his experience at the gate, Winston saw a dot form above the timeline to the right of his present position — a “bookmark” for the gate moment, he realized. He pushed the time slider until it landed in the marked position, then instructed the Alpha Machine pieces to seek exactly twenty-four hours beyond that point, a time Winston had never visited and so would not cause a duality conflict. The Alpha Machine system complied and showed green controls. All set.
This time, when Bernie drew even with Winston and the cage thudded into the stone floor, Winston was not wide-eyed and lost. He met Bernie’s dazzling gaze with determination.
“No, let me,” interrupted Winston. “I’m going forward to twenty-four hours after I arrived at the Area X gate. Remember when you reached out to me? Twenty-four after that.”
Bernie stepped to the bars between them. His eyes seemed to grow slightly larger. Was that an expression of surprise? Maybe worry? Winston took one step back to make sure he stayed out of reach.
“I want you here. I want my parents here. And I want them here with a bunch of QV serums. Got it?”
Bernie slowly shook his head.
Winston smiled. “Yeah, but it feels so right.” He raised Little e. “And if there are guards or whatever, and I get captured, then the Omega Mesh will just have to deal with it.”
He started to squeeze Little e’s crossbar, when Bernie all but yelled in his mind,
“What?”
That caught Winston off guard.
Bernie gripped his cell bars, leaning forward until his forehead touched the steel.
Winston knew Bernie was playing for time, trying to delay him for some unknown reason. But outright lying? That seemed out of character given the little Winston knew about the alien.
“I’m going,” he said. “Twenty-four hours from the gate. Just please make it happen.”
And as Winston pushed his mental energy into Little e and out to the Alpha Machine pieces, he felt one last thought from Bernie force its way into his brain.
18
An Offer for Authority
The chimpanzee stared at Bledsoe from its small cage bolted into the far wall, sullen and clutching an unpeeled banana. A gray woolen blanket lay crumpled under its feet to protect them from the wire mesh. Every once in a while, Bledsoe could swear that the monkey was trying to think at him. Of course, that was absurd. The primate might have human-like brown eyes, but that didn’t mean there was intelligence behind them.
“Shh,” Bledsoe muttered to the beast from his desk. “I can’t get a word in edgewise with you hogging the conversation.”
He rubbed at his forehead, trying to push away a slowly mounting headache and a creeping sense of mental fogginess.
“What’s that, sir?”
The new kid from Columbia University peeked over the stack of books atop his own desk. He sat in the row opposite Bledsoe, three stations down. Four of them remained in Animal Research, even though 5:00 had chimed almost half an hour before. The other two walked before the long line of cages, checking food and water levels and murmuring to the various creatures. Bledsoe would have already missed the tram back to the west elevator. No point in rushing now. It didn’t matter, anyway. He and Theo weren’t due to drive into town — if one could call that sad outpost of sweat and grime a town — until 7:00.
“Nothing,” Bledsoe said, mostly to himself. “Nothing at all.”
The chimpanzee was one of two females in that cage. The other rested on her own blanket, face to the wall, perhaps sleeping, although Bledsoe suspected she was ill. He could tell them apart by the pattern of spots in the brown skin around their mouths, but otherwise he had no sense of their individuality. He used their proper names of SC14 and SC15, not Ellory and Queen, as some of the others called them. They were just test subjects, like the scattering of rats, guinea pigs, and cats arrayed in their own cage sections within the research center. The builders had not planned for chimps to be here, and so the female pair were taken out for thirty minutes each day to roam about, leashed, in the adjacent room, where they could climb on abandoned filing cabinets and swing on the rope that staff had attached to the ceiling.
Ridiculous, Bledsoe thought. These were experiment subjects, not pets. He loathed being here, among the stench of fur and excrement, with animals chittering and howling all day and night. He was a physicist, not a biologist. How had he gone from the Manhattan Project to scribbling notes about monkeys?
Because the monkeys in question had been injected with QVs fourteen hours before, and he had to know the daily behavior of these animals as if they were his best friends to better observe any differences once they started getting dosed with radiation. He had objected to being assigned to animals. The brass had asked if he wanted to be pulled off QVs completely, and that was the end of that discussion.
However, observing monkeys was never going to tell him everything he needed to know. Bledsoe knew that these experiments were ultimately going to culminate in human trials. They had to if the military ever wanted to see its force of radiation-proof super soldiers become a reality. The government had time on its side, now that the war was over and the Soviets remained clueless about how to harness nuclear technology. Hence, they wanted to go slowly. That didn’t change the fact that someone was going to emerge as the hero of Project Majestic, the one researcher who took a leap and changed history. Bledsoe had every intention of being that hero.
Which was why he had snuck into the bio lockers last night and injected himself with 30 cc’s of QV serum.
SC15 appears quiet, possibly lethargic, he wrote in his logbook. She is holding her afternoon banana but makes no attempt to eat it. SC14 remains curled in the fetal position in the cage’s corner, possibly suffering from early effects of QV sickness. She has not moved in over one hour, although she makes no audible sign—
The room’s only phone rang where it hung near the research room’s main door, setting some of the animals to squeaking with its obnoxiously loud chrome bells. Fortunately, one of the other researchers sat in a desk closer to the entrance. He gave Bledsoe a questioning glance, but when Bledsoe turned his attention back to his logbook, the man sighed, scooted back from his desk, and moved to lift the handset. He listened for a moment, then faced Bledsoe and raised his eyebrows with a told you so expression. Bledsoe had the urge to pull rank and put the younger man in his place, then realized that they were both here doing the same thing: staring at animals. He didn’t have much claim to greatness down here.
The handset cord only reached five feet, and the man held it out to Bledsoe expectantly. SC15’s eyes followed Bledsoe as he crossed to the researcher and took the black handset from him.
“Hello?”
“Mister Bledsoe?”
The voice on the line was male, but it sounded distant, thin, and metallic, which wasn’t necessarily unusual for these long copper lines, but something about this caller sounded odd.
“It’s Doctor Bledsoe, but
whatever floats your boat.”
“Mister Bledsoe, you need to report back to your office.”
Bledsoe couldn’t wait to get out of research, but he’d procrastinated coming in this afternoon, and now he had to pay the price for another twenty-five minutes. Besides, something about this caller bothered him.
“Why?” he asked. “Who is this?”
“This is Command One.”
Bledsoe gave a chuckle. Someone must be putting him on. He probably had a prank of some sort waiting back in his office, although who would do such a thing? Only Claude, but Claude had been acting so odd and distant lately. Because of her, no doubt.
“And this is The Shadow.” He wanted to be even more flippant, but there was still an outside chance of this person being a superior. “Now, who’s really calling?”
“I know you injected a QV sample eleven hours ago.”
That brought Bledsoe’s humor to a screeching halt. He had been excruciatingly careful in stealing the vial, substituting one containing saline measured to match the QV content down to the droplet and swapping them when he had “accidentally” dropped SC15’s leash. The chimp had made a dash through the researcher’s desks, drawing everyone’s attention, and Bledsoe had traded out the vials in the two seconds he’d needed. One restroom stop later, the agent was in his bloodstream.
Bledsoe expected an incubation and sickness phase, just as many of his chimps had undergone. So far, though, he just had this low-grade headache. That suited Bledsoe just fine. Still, he remained disappointed that nothing else had happened to him. He had secretly hoped for one or two miraculous powers, like Superman. For now, he’d have to wait for the chance to try using those silver artifacts.
“Who is this?” Bledsoe repeated, all humor vanished.
“This is Command One. Go to your office now.”
Bledsoe needed more information. Could he run? There was no way to get past security if he tried. He was almost half a mile from the exit, and that was before all the security that waited beyond it. He turned his back to the research room and ran his fingertips over the phone’s rotary dial.
“Am I in trouble?” he asked quietly enough not to be overheard.
“No…” said Command One with a lingering tone that might have implied not yet.
There was a click, and the cycling ehhh-ehhh-ehhh of a disconnected line grated in Bledsoe’s ear. He slowly lowered the handset on its horseshoe-shaped cradle.
Drawing a shaky breath, Bledsoe turned from the phone and started for the door. Only as he reached for the doorknob did he realize his mistake. He went back to his desk, carefully set his pencil along the spine of his logbook, and closed it.
“Everything all right?” asked the kid from Columbia.
Bledsoe found it difficult to swallow. “Yeah. Fine. Looks like I’ve got a loose end on my other project, and they need me to look at it.”
For an instant, Bledsoe was afraid the guy would press him for details, just because he had nothing better to do. Instead, he only nodded and said, “Well, I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”
Bledsoe nodded back and felt slightly superstitious as he avoided eye contact with SC15. Strange. Why would he do that?
He made his way into the hall and took the third door on the right. He shared the little room with three other researchers, one of whom was a tenured, steel-haired professor from Stanford. She always squinted at Bledsoe in a way he found disturbing, as if she were both scrutinizing and sniffing him and found both senses unpleasant. For better or worse, though, the room was now vacant, save for Bledsoe, the four stained pine desks, and a single filing cabinet in the corner that contained months of data on each of their assigned animals.
God, what he wouldn’t give for a window. Sometimes, he couldn’t remember what the sun looked like beaming through trees or soaking into his skin. He might as well be a Neanderthal living in a cave.
Bledsoe stood inside the entryway, surveying his temporary work quarters and wondering how he was going to get back into Radiation…assuming he wasn’t going directly to prison.
He heard a low tone, like the hum from a faulty vacuum tube. It seemed to come from inside his ear, but that couldn’t be right. Bledsoe stepped closer to the nearest hanging lamp, wondering if the bulb or wiring might somehow be giving off an audible frequency.
The sound quickly faded, then he heard footsteps immediately behind him. A uniformed black man entered the office. He was about the same height as Bledsoe, a bit thicker through the chest and belly, bald under his cap, and bearing a sergeant’s insignia. He closed the office door and locked it.
He faced Bledsoe with calm assurance from dark, piercing eyes. “Mr. Bledsoe,” he said in a deep voice that carried natural authority, “I am Command One.”
Bledsoe raised an eyebrow at the man’s uniform. “That’s a big name for a sergeant.”
The man offered a slight smile and a single nod. “This visit is a result of your injection of the symbiont metavirus strain.”
In the confined office, Bledsoe suddenly felt a touch of claustrophobia. His heart raced, and was acutely aware of his rapid, shallow breathing. He probably looked as guilty as he felt. Justifications for his actions started pouring through his mind, lining up to answer the questions he knew this fellow would soon ask.
“Perhaps you should sit down,” said the man.
That sounded like a grand idea. Bledsoe nearly missed the lip of his seat as he started to sit and then his knees buckled.
“I take it you’re not a sergeant?” he asked through dry lips.
“I am,” said the man. “Among other things.”
That triggered an alarm in Bledsoe’s mind. “Are you a spy? What’s your name?”
He knew the Russkies were working to steal nuclear secrets. Could they already be after Project Majestic research, as well?
Command One shook his head. “No, not a spy. Quite the opposite, in fact. I am known here as Clarence Singleton.”
Bledsoe said, “One. Singleton. Ha…I get it.”
“To save us time,” said the sergeant, “I’m going to show you something. Try not to react with excessive volume.”
Before Bledsoe could ask what that meant, a memory appeared in his mind. He was in a dance hall, specifically the dance floor of the Grange hall in Patterton about thirty miles west of Area X. Nellie Lutcher’s “Hurry on Down” was starting up on the PA, and there was Amanda skipping toward them across the dance floor. She wore that sleeveless, knee-length, form-fitting blue dress that Bledsoe loved on her. Her hand stretched toward the three of them — Bledsoe, Claude, and Theo — as if trying to sense who wanted to dance with her the most. Bledsoe was first to his feet, first to reach her hand. She met his eyes, but something changed in her expression, as if she had heard a skip on the record or spotted a blemish on his face. As Claude stood beside him…
Bledsoe knew in excruciating detail what came next. Unsure how to politely pick only one of them, Amanda would take Claude’s hand in addition to Bledsoe’s. Bledsoe would laugh, kiss her knuckles, and say they had all the time in the world tonight, so Claude could get in line.
Only that’s not what the memory revealed. Suddenly, the vision shifted. Bledsoe was no longer in his own head. He was seeing the scene as if from a movie camera panning around the group. Instantly, he recoiled, leaning back in his desk seat, confused. Was this a daydream of some sort? He had never witnessed the event from this perspective.
He saw the exchange as if looking over Theo’s shoulder. He and Claude stood facing each other, both clasping Amanda’s hands between them as the music continued to play. She glanced between the two men, unsure how to proceed. Bledsoe laughed, but now, witnessing the event from outside himself, he could see the wild look in his eyes. He appeared hungry, overeager, maybe even desperate. As he bent forward to kiss the back of Amanda’s hand, he saw worry and revulsion flash across her face. Her arm twitched, wanting to pull away from him.
That hadn’t happened. Bledsoe woul
d have remembered that motion, that clear sign of rejection. He would have remembered gazing at her like a maniac if it had actually occurred. Wouldn’t he?
We have plenty of time, said Bledsoe in the memory.
So you won’t mind waiting just a few minutes for a turn? Claude asked.
Having recovered and put on her usual smiling, agreeable expression, Amanda gave an apologetic shrug and dropped Bledsoe’s hand before running off to the dance floor with Claude — and ultimately their first kiss.
Even now, in his office and beset with confusion, Bledsoe felt anger burn within him.
“That’s not how that happened,” he growled. “And how am I seeing this?”
“It is exactly how it happened,” said Command One. “Human memory is inherently flawed. Our recordings of events are not.”
Bledsoe gripped the sides of his chair, feeling the first stirrings of panic. Maybe he was going a bit mad.
“There were no cameras anywhere,” Bledsoe objected. “And even if there were…how is it in my head?”
Saying the words out loud only made his fear grow. No wonder the guy had cautioned him to remain calm.
“The QVs, as you call them, have modified your brain’s chemistry and construction,” said Command One. “You have new substructures and functions that did not exist prior to your injection. One of these functions allows you to communicate with the ambient sensor network around you. To put it simply, these nano-scale sensor motes record a vast amount of real-time data, effectively everywhere and at all times. This information is recorded, stored, and can be shared to recipients if they are properly enabled with neurocognitive capabilities, as you recently have been.”
He paused, studying Bledsoe for his reaction.
“With all due respect,” said Bledsoe, “I have no flippin’ idea what you’re talking about.”
“I am describing the Omega Mesh. It is a vast array of computing engines that exists in the future relative to your present time.”
“I once saw a computer,” said Bledsoe. “It was really big, but it couldn’t put stuff in people’s heads.”
Winston Chase and the Omega Mesh Page 13
