by Jaxon Reed
Cybershot
An Empathic Detective Novel
Jaxon Reed
Cybershot: An Empathic Detective Novel
Copyright © 2018 by Jaxon Reed
Cover art by JH Illustration, jeaninehenning.com
Editing and formatting by edbok.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Dedication
For Jonathan
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Historical Notes
Other books by Jaxon Reed:
Prologue
The man in the white lab coat said, “Now Jacques, listen to me very carefully.”
The boy wondered again about the man’s occupation. He had been able to discern the man’s medical training, in the milieu of overheard conversations combined with his extra-sensory perception. He knew the man also had a background in the social sciences, though which specific discipline he was not quite sure. He thought almost certainly it had to be psychology.
But Jacques had not been able to figure out the man’s title. Asking questions had proven fruitless over the years. All the lab people avoided discussion about themselves. They were obviously trained to deflect personal inquiries. He could see that clearly now, in retrospect.
Jacques looked up and locked eyes with Michel. The scientist/doctor/psychologist stood at medium height. Mid-thirties, prematurely bald with a thin ring of brown hair on the sides.
“No, Michel. I am tired of you telling me what to do. You and the other swine.”
Michel stood up straight, his white lab coat rustling. Jacques knew he had not hurt the man’s feelings. Michel looked unperturbed as ever.
Jacques snorted and said, “I know you feel nothing, no matter how much I insult you. You are on a drug cocktail called Hexenhammer.”
Michel stared at the boy, blankly. Jacques stood up to his full height, 181 centimeters. Just under six feet, as the Americans would say. He was skinny. He felt gangly, and his body did not yet work as smoothly or gracefully as he would prefer.
The lab coats told him this was normal for a 15-year-old boy. He smirked at the thought. The woman who said that, the one who had called him a boy, slipped and fell on her way out, badly spraining her ankle . . .
“How do you know about Hexenhammer, Jacques?”
Jacques snapped out of the memory. He swept long dark bangs out of his eyes and stared back at Michel. He said, “Always poking. Always prodding. Always questioning. You and the other lab coats.”
He looked in the direction of one of the many cameras hidden in the wall and said, “I know my entire life has been observed and recorded by you people.”
He walked over to a window and peered out at the street, watching people walk back and forth. A couple sipped coffee at a sidewalk café nearby. Someone played chess alone at another table. Notre-Dame Cathedral’s twin spires stood majestically in the distance.
“I know the window is fake,” Jacques said. “It’s just a fancy monitor. This same street scene played last year. I remember the man playing chess by himself. In a moment, a gendarme will walk by and watch him for a while.”
A uniformed police officer appeared, following the flow of pedestrians. Seeing the man playing chess alone, he strolled to the table, his curiosity piqued.
Michel’s eyebrows furrowed. The drugs held his emotions in check, but Jacques had no doubt he was trying to sort through this new information.
Michel said, “We know your intelligence is extraordinary. We did not realize how good your memory is. What else do you know, Jacques?”
“I know there are cameras, hidden ones, all throughout the suite. I know that I am watched day and night. I know that even when my own mother comes to visit me you dose her up on those drugs so I can’t control her.”
He had first discovered the power of emotional control about three years ago, when one of his tutors scolded him for not paying attention. In a hot flash of anger, he projected feelings of disgust and profound contempt on the man. The tutor seemed to crumple, like a deflated balloon, and had to leave. He found out later the man committed suicide that evening. No one visited Jacques since then without emotion-damping drugs in their system.
“I know that I am not supposed to go out that door, that there are four guards stationed outside at all times, armed with weapons and holding strict orders to prevent me from leaving.”
That irked Jacques most of all, the guards and the expectation he would stay in the suite. Possibly forever. No one would talk to him about the outside world or plans for the future.
Jacques’s pale white face flushed with anger. He drew closer to Michel, who drew a cautious step back, keeping his distance.
Jacques said, “I am nothing but an experiment to you. Everyone wants to know what I can do. But I know I can do more than all of you. Otherwise, why keep me here like a prisoner?”
He turned away from the man in disgust, his threatening stance instantly changing to a dismissive one.
Michel said, “Jacques, you have no idea how important you are.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard many times from you and my mother over the years.”
“We are just learning what you can do. Your powers. There has never lived anyone quite like you. No one has come close in many generations.”
Michel took a step forward, closing the distance between them. He said softly, “You have the power to change history, Jacques.”
Jacques turned around quickly, his cheeks flushing red again. He said, “I’ll change history because I can control how people feel?”
He snorted and gave a contemptuous chortle, his mood changing again.
“I can do more than you know, Michel. I doubt I can change history on the power of emotions alone. . .” Jacques waved around the room. “And yet . . . All this technology, all this equipment to watch my every move, and no one knows I can do so much more!”
“Like what, Jacques? What can you do?”
The social scientist in Michel had taken over, Jacques decided. Curiosity. Probing. Prodding. They all bubbled to the surface.
Jacques snorted again and said, “I grow tired of my confinement. I’ve been here seven years. I am ready to leave. So, I will show you what I can do, Michel. Then, you will let me go.”
Jacques waved a hand around the room and said, “These gadgets, these gizmos you have hidden everywhere to watch me, they’re not foolproof. In fact, every night the last few months they’ve been very glitchy, have they not?”
He waited for a response, but Michel said nothing.
“Yes, Michel, I can control all the devices in the entire suite. Look at the window.”
Jacques pointed and Michel turned his head. The monitor flickered out. The scene from the street disappeared, leaving a pale white rectangle in the window frame.
“That is impressive, Jacques. You should have told me you can manipulate electronics.”
“Why? So you could run more experiments? But that’s not all I can do. While the cameras were on the fritz I’ve been exploring all sorts of things. Like this.”
A table and chair float
ed up in the air at a sharp angle. The lamp slid off, but before it reached the floor it stopped and floated in the air beside the table.
Michel nodded. “Telekinesis. Impressive.”
He did not feel impressed, Jacques decided. He just noted it, like a clinician jotting it down on a form. It was nothing more than new data to Michel.
Jacques spread his arms in a dramatic flourish. He said, “I can control electronics. I can move things with my mind. And now that I’ve shown you what I can do, it’s time for you to do something for me.”
Michel looked at Jacques with cool, calm eyes. When he spoke, no emotion carried with his words. He said, “You can’t leave, Jacques.”
The boy’s face blushed again and his eyes flashed with a red glow, like an old-fashioned camera bulb going off in his skull. The table and lamp and chair crashed to the floor. Michel’s body jerked up, taking their place in the air. He twirled his arms, trying to maintain balance.
Jacques walked briskly to the door, his hand seeming to pull Michel along as if he were a balloon on an unseen string. Jacques thrust out his other hand and the fortified door to the suite blew off its hinges.
Four guards wearing body armor sprang into position in the foyer, kneeling down and aiming their guns at him.
Jacques smiled and said, “Would they kill me, Michel, if am so valuable?”
Floating above and behind him, Michel said, “They are armed with rubber bullets. Like you said, non-lethal. They won’t kill you, Jacques, but you will not be leaving. There are others behind the next door, and a veritable labyrinth of security measures with even more guards behind that.
“We took precautions, Jacques. You don’t remember coming in, do you? Seven years ago, when we brought you here, we made sure you were unconscious. That was even before we realized how good your memory is. We were careful. We’re always careful. You may have fooled us with the electronics, but you are not leaving.”
Jacques looked at the man suspended in the air, and his eyes flashed red again. He said, “Then neither are you.”
He flicked a finger and the man’ wrists snapped back, the bones breaking. Michel screamed.
“You will suffer a very painful death, Michel.”
The squad leader gave a signal, and all four guards fired their weapons. The long rubber bullets stopped mid-air. Jacques’s eyes flashed red. He twirled his finger and the bullets reversed course, shooting back with far greater force. Each projectile embedded itself in the neck of a different guard, just above their chest plates.
They collapsed on the floor, clawing at their throats. One of the men pulled out his baton. Another scrambled to his feet despite his wounds. Jacques tilted his head and four necks snapped, simultaneously. The guards slumped to the floor, lifeless.
He turned back to Michel who whimpered softly in pain, his arms spread wide, broken wrists dangling.
“Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You wanted to know more about what I can do. I’ve been dreaming about torturing somebody for months. Watch now. Have your people record this while I do it without touching you.”
Another door opened, this one past the fallen guards. Phoebe Renard burst into the room. Short, thin, and intense, her black hair was cropped short. She looked down at the bodies in shock, then gaped up at Michel dangling in the air with his white lab coat hanging limply, and his hands flopping about at the broken wrists.
For the first time in years, Jacques realized his mother was not on Hexenhammer.
“Jacques Bryce Renard! You put him down this instance!”
Jacques let Michel fall out of the air and tumble to the floor. Michel groaned in pain from the impact.
But the moment of reflexive obedience passed. Jacques reached out and took over Phoebe’s emotions before she could say anything else.
“We’re leaving, Mama. We’ve stayed here long enough.”
His resolve and determination flowed into her. His emotions. His will.
She nodded and said, “Yes, dear, of course. Where are we going?”
“It’s time to visit my father. You’ve told me so much about him. Now I want to meet him. We’re going to Texas.”
1
Detective Gerald Bryce walked faster as he neared the entrance to his apartment. Tonight, he thought, he needed the walk. The evening had been exceptionally difficult. His longtime partner, Detective Emily Parker, threw a birthday party for her son at Ruffalo’s, one of their favorite places. Her ex showed up with his girlfriend. Emily had discovered Dan’s affair months ago and filed for divorce shortly after. The emotional stress between the couple, their son and Dan’s girlfriend had been almost too much to bear for Bryce, even with Melody there.
Bryce and Melody were divorced, too, but for different reasons than Dan and Emily. Melody suffered bouts of incapacitating precognition when she spent too much time with Bryce. The last few years, though, they had managed to see one another regularly, if infrequently.
Melody knew of Bryce’s empathic abilities, of course, and she quickly gathered from visual and verbal clues that an emotional maelstrom assaulted Bryce’s enhanced senses. She squeezed his hand from time to time throughout the evening and tried to direct loving thoughts toward him.
That helped, a little. But Emily was far from over the separation, and Dan’s presence opened up barely healed wounds. Sitting across the table from her, Bryce knew exactly how she felt. He was like a radio tuned into a strong transmission tower, stuck on one channel. There could be no avoiding the signals. The fact Dan showed up for their son’s birthday party with the woman he had cheated with poured salt in Emily’s wounds.
Meanwhile, Bryce knew that outwardly Dan felt perfectly justified bringing his girlfriend, but the guilt he buried tried to claw its way up. To the outside world Dan displayed satisfaction in life and showed nothing but affection toward his girlfriend. Inwardly, the knowledge he would someday have to face the reality of his mistakes lay hidden under several layers of denial. One day, sooner or later, Dan would have to face an enormous burden of guilt for the harm he had inflicted on his family.
The teen, Aiden, was caught in the middle between two parents he dearly loved. The home he grew up in had been ripped apart, and deep down inside he thought maybe it was somehow all his fault. That pain and self-doubt, Bryce knew, would likely torment the boy well into his adult years. Perhaps his entire life.
Lexi, the girlfriend, felt contempt for Emily and bored with the party. She did not care much for Aiden, and felt time with Dan’s former family was a complete waste. She had no interest in Bryce or Melody, either. Winning Dan away from his older wife had been a triumph, but jealousy for any attention he gave her or his son bubbled just under the surface. If she could, she’d be pregnant soon and give Dan a new child. One they could both love.
Through all of these mostly negative emotions swirling around people he cared for (although, if he were honest, he cared very little for Lexi), Bryce sat stoically. He felt deep appreciation for Melody’s frequent smiles, hand squeezes, and the warm emotions she sent his way.
He had three beers, more than his usual solitary glass. Afterward, his senses dulled, he kissed Melody before she took an autocab home then walked the long route back to his apartment in order to clear his head and let all the disparate emotions from a broken family fade away.
He built a light sweat in the evening heat. This time of year in Central Texas, the temperature would not be dropping below 80 degrees Fahrenheit until well after midnight.
His reflection showed dimly in the windows he walked past. He had an athletic build, a straight back, and brown hair still thick despite wings of gray above the ears. In his mid-fifties, he stood an even six feet and stayed in shape, partly by walking as often as possible. That was not always an easy task in a city designed to accommodate flying vehicles.
But in recent years his old neighborhood had benefitted from the new mayor’s urban renewal program. Ground traffic was making something of a comeback. New facades and windows along with
other aesthetic improvements made the streets more pedestrian friendly. Even his old apartment building had received a covered entryway, giving it a more classic look.
Lost in thought, he passed a final alley, the tail end of the alcohol fading away.
“Monsieur Bryce?”
Bryce stopped and turned, berating himself for not paying attention. Deep in thought, he had lost grip of his emotional antenna, a technique to keep him apprised when someone noticed him or if nearby people were entertaining cruel emotions.
A man stepped out of the alley, a cast on each arm. He reached out toward Bryce, holding something in his right hand.
Thup!
Everything slipped into slow motion. The look of surprise on the man’s face. His hand holding something for Bryce. A tiny trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. He fell forward, landing face-first on the sidewalk, blood splattering from a gaping hole in his back. The object from his hand rolled down the sidewalk toward Bryce.
A rush of adrenaline surged through the detective. He swooped down and grabbed the round object and dove behind a parked car in the same smooth motion.
He had a newer model cell phone implant, complete with a neurological link and hands-free operation. But years of habit kicked in and he pressed the small bulge under his ear anyway.
“Nine-one-one!”
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency, Detective Bryce?”
“Shots fired, my location. High-powered weapon. Possible suppressor. One civilian down. Request immediate assistance!”
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