Rob remembers the simulated fight. At the time, his body ran, jumped, ducked, and dodged through the plywood city of its own volition. Once his consciousness merged with Paul’s, he got the whole picture. He could recall and replay Paul’s memories the same as he could his own, and he saw the things Paul experienced from his end of the simulation. It was no wonder the boy tired so easily—it explained why his own body panted and wheezed in the plywood city. Paul couldn’t keep up with the physical demands of the simulation, his body tired, and Rob’s body mirrored him at the other end of the mental connection even though his own body’s conditioning could withstand the physical exertion.
For a time, Rob keeps to the shadows of Paul’s mind, only coming forward when the boy has a question or comment, something that he doesn’t understand about Rob’s memories and experiences added to his stream of consciousness. Days become weeks and Paul becomes noticeably more comfortable with Rob. They carry on entire conversations in silence. So this is what it feels like to be schizophrenic? Paul asks.
Rob can’t help from laughing. It’s contagious and overflows from Paul’s mind and out his mouth—right in the middle of an important Algebra test. A stern look from his teacher puts a lid on his outburst.
Finally, the day comes when Paul tells Rob, What they did to you was wrong. They should have just let you die.
Rob is silent for a minute and Paul quickly adds, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.
Oh, that’s okay. I know what you meant.
Then came the question. The one that Rob wanted to hear from the beginning of this mental adventure. So what are we going to do about it? Those people need to pay—well, at least Singleton and Potter.
Rob is actually surprised at Singleton’s name—but then again, the man did knowingly trick the boy into participating in an experiment that, at the very least, could have left him in a vegetative state—at worst, could have killed him.
Rob consoles the boy but in the end, he tells Paul that Singleton, although his intentions seemed bad, might just have been in the same situation they were in—manipulated against his will to help Potter develop the weapons technology. Rob’s metal voice says, I think we can use Singleton to get to Potter.
It’s Paul’s turn to be silent. He stews over the information for a long while as Rob waits. If there’s one thing he’s learned these past few weeks, its patience. Something else is that Paul isn’t like any other teenager he’s ever encountered. He remembers his own thought processes as a child, but they are nothing like Paul’s mental response to external situations. The boy thinks problems through rationally and meticulously—coming to decisions more like an adult than a teenager.
What do you have in mind? Paul asks, and Rob tells him.
What do I need to do? Paul asks—Rob tells him that too.
It’s going to be a long road ahead of us. Five or six years at least. You sure you want to do this?
Paul nods his head. Yes. Absolutely, yes.
Part Two
Five years later-
The house is empty except for Singleton. Outside, rain drops tick, tick, tick off the eaves and splash into growing puddles. Thunder growls and shakes the little wood-framed home while a peal of lightning splits the sky. The storm matches Singleton’s mood.
Even through the roar of the storm, he hears the sound of a slamming car door. It’s too close to be the neighbors. He pushes himself out of his rocker, shuffles to the small foyer, and peeks out through the mini curtain covering the tiny window in the door.
A young man in a heavy grey trench coat approaches. Rain pours from above but the man is in no hurry—he ambles from the street as if he’s taking a leisurely stroll through a park on a sunny, cloudless day. Singleton wonders if the man’s car has broken down. He has no friends and no family within four hundred miles, so he’s curious as to who this man might be.
Lightning strikes in the distance, temporarily turning the approaching figure into an eclipsed silhouette—a black stain moving against a dark night.
Then it hits him like a locomotive striking a cow that’s wandered too close to the tracks. It’s Potter! He’s finally coming to take me out of the picture. Singleton knew this day would come. You can’t just up and tell a man like General Potter that you quit—especially when the job is not only classified, but unethical and illegal too. Singleton hoped that the thousands of miles separating him from the General might delay the inevitable—that maybe, just maybe, their years of working together may have given Singleton a reprieve.
Heavy footfalls echo on the steps and another peal of lightning rips the sky. Singleton takes a tentative step away from the door. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder, somewhat surprised there’s not already an intruder waiting in the house and using the person at the door as misdirection.
Knuckles pound on the door and a voice calls out, “Mister Singleton?”
He’s frozen. Who could it be? Any man of Potter’s—if they were coming to erase his existence—certainly wouldn’t knock on the front door. Whoever it is, he knows who I am.
“Who is it?” he asks, voice high and mousy.
There’s a pregnant pause filled by grumbling thunder, then the man on the other side of the door says, “Sir, it would be best if I explain it to you face to face—without the door between us.”
Singleton hesitates. Is this a trick? Will he open the door to find the barrel of a gun pointed at his head? Whether he opens the door or not, if it is Potter, there’s no avoiding what’s coming. He covers the few feet to the door, wraps his right hand around the knob, unlatches the chain lock with his left, takes a halting breath, and opens the door.
* * *
The young man stands several inches taller than Singleton. His stare is youthful, but intense: grey eyes reflecting the atmosphere outside. His light, sandy hair, cropped close to his scalp, is wet from rain. Singleton guesses the man to be in his early twenties and judging by the boys posture, hair, and unwavering gaze, probably military too. Singleton stares into his eyes. There’s recognition there. He knows him even though Singleton doesn’t recollect ever meeting him before.
“I apologize for all the water, but do you mind if I come in?”
Singleton hesitates.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” says the young man. He trusts out his right hand and says, “I’m Robert Daley.”
* * *
Singleton extends his hand and shakes Paul’s. “Pleasure to meet you—I guess.”
The older man attempts to draw his hand back, but Paul holds it tight. His eyes are wary but there’s no recollection at the mention of Rob’s name, so he uses the name that Singleton would be sure to know. He draws Singleton closer and whispers, “Maybe you know me by my other name—Paul Guest.”
Singleton’s head snaps back as if slapped by an invisible hand. Panic floods his eyes and his complexion turns ghostly white. Again, he tries to pry his hand away, but Paul continues to hold on to him. Finally, he ceases his struggling and says, “What do you want? Have you come to kill me?”
Rob laughs and the sound almost escapes through Paul’s mouth. Even after so many years having a combined consciousness, it’s sometimes hard for Rob not to take over the physical too.
Paul thinks, Rob, he’s afraid of me—us.
May I? asks Rob. Paul know what he means.
Yes, he thinks.
Rob comes forward from the darkness of Paul’s mind and takes control.
“Mr. Singleton, we’re not here to hurt you. We need your help.” Then he explains his plans, plans that include a former research scientist named Georgia Cobb.
* * *
“It’ll never work,” says Singleton with a shake of his head. He cradles a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. “Potter will never go for it.”
Rob, still in control of Paul, says, “Has he ever had an offer like this?”
“To my knowledge, no.”
“And from what little I know of the man, and from what you’ve told me about
him tonight, I think he’ll jump all over this opportunity.”
Singleton still shakes his head.
Rob tries another approach, one he knows will work. “How long do you want to live here in fear?”
The older man flinches, glances at him, and then looks away, shamed. He is afraid. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he is.
Rob leans forward and grabs Singleton’s forearm. “You know too much about him and his project. It’s only a matter of time before he—or his superiors—decide to cut away any loose ends.” Rob pokes him in the chest. “And that includes you.”
Singleton’s head lowers and he nods reluctantly. “I know. I know.” He sits in silence for a beat, then asks, “What about Georgia Cobb? I don’t know her—have only spoken to her once, back before I met you. I don’t even know what she looks like.”
Rob smiles. “Don’t worry about that. Paul and I already have her on board.”
Singleton raises his eyebrows questioningly.
“She’s a professor now at a small East Texas college. I took one of her classes last summer after my Army discharge. She’s on board and ready at a moment’s notice.”
“You work fast.”
Rob shakes his head, suddenly serious. “No. This has been a yearly struggle. You see this boy?” He moves his hand before his face. “Is this the boy you remember from that arcade?”
“No,” Singleton has to admit it. The wisp of the boy he’d seen all those years ago was nothing like the man standing before him now. This man is strong—still slight of build, but toned to perfection by military training. The boy he remembered could have been blown over by a strong wind.
“You don’t know how difficult it can be for a teenage boy to suddenly have another person sharing your body with you.” Rob glances away, gaze staring beyond the walls of the kitchen into some distant memory. “Paul and I often make jokes to each other about schizophrenia. But in the end, this must be exactly what it is.”
Singleton sips the last of his coffee. “So what now?”
Rob’s eyes turn back to him, suddenly serious again. “Now you pack a bag. You have an introduction to make.”
* * *
Two days later, a tan Toyota pulls up to the front of a small red-brick house. It’s almost midnight and the occupant inside sleeps soundly. Years of comfort and security have chiseled away at the ever-alert military man of his youth. This is the one place he could lay his head down and sleep soundly with no fear: but General Potter is about to receive an unexpected awakening.
Singleton, Paul, and Georgia all stare out the passenger side window at the house where General Potter lives. Georgia grips the steering wheel, knuckles white in anticipation.
“Well,” says Singleton. “This is it, isn’t it?”
Paul nods in the darkness. “Yup.”
Singleton opens the door and steps out. As Paul reaches for his door-handle, Georgia reaches between the seats and grabs him by the shoulder. “Are you sure about this?”
He turns. The darkness shrouds his face but she can feel the intensity of his gaze. Voice cold, he says, “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”
* * *
At first, he thinks thunder has awoken him; but then his head clears and he quickly dismisses the thought. The night before, the local weatherman predicted the weekend would be sunny with no chance of rain. He slowly slides his hand underneath the pillow and wraps his fingers around the pistol hidden beneath. He listens to the quiet house.
There it is again, and there’s no mistaking it this time—someone is knocking at the front door. He throws off the covers and darts from the bedroom, down the short hallway, and stops just short of the front door. He does not turn on any light. Bordering the door are two thick windows. Blinds cover both, but the one on the left has a slight crack, allowing him to peek outside without actually having to move the fabric. Two men are on his front porch—both stand well away from the front door, as if they expect the occupant inside to glance out before opening the door.
He takes a breath and shouts through the door, “Please take another step back.” He flips on the porch light. He does not recognize the young man, but the man closest to the door, he knows him.
He opens the door. The humid, Friday night air hits him like a blast from a furnace. “Aaron Singleton? What the hell are you doing here?”
* * *
Singleton takes another step back as the door swings open. It never occurred to him the General would greet them with a gun. What did you expect, he asks himself. It’s freaking midnight and we just woke up a military psychopath. Still, the gun startles him.
“Who’s this?” he spouts, flicking the gun in Paul’s direction.
Singleton takes a hesitant step forward. “We’ll get to that shortly. May we come in? I have a proposition for you.”
Potter’s ice-blue eyes roll away from the young man and settle back on Singleton. “Proposition? I don’t think you’re in a position to offer me anything. I terminated your contract.”
Singleton closes more distance. Potter lifts the gun involuntarily, but this time, Singleton does not back away. He meets the other man’s gaze.
The General takes a deep, halting breath, lowers the gun, and steps aside, allowing Singleton to pass.
He crosses the threshold with Paul close behind. Potter flips on the hall light and closes the front door, then leads them into the kitchen. A flimsy card table surrounded by metal folding chairs takes up most of the floor space.
Potter drops into one of the chairs and addresses Singleton, “You have ten minutes.”
“That’s all I’ll need,” says Singleton, taking the seat across from Potter.
Paul is content to lean in the doorway.
Singleton shifts uncomfortably in the chair. He asks, “How’s the project fairing?”
Potter raises his eyes to the light fixture above them. He closes them briefly then lowers his head. His eyes suddenly look extremely tired, cloudy and glassy like a winter lake. “Let’s just say that after all these years, we still haven’t found the answers to the problems that have plagued us from the beginning.”
“I’m surprised the government hasn’t shut the program down.”
Potter leans forward and says, “Your ten minutes are ticking away. Want to get to the point?”
Singleton glances at Paul, takes a halting breath, and then says, “I have a volunteer for your program.”
“A…a volunteer?”
Singleton nods toward Paul. Potter looks at the younger man with narrowed eyes, as if Paul were a stain in the carpet. Voice low and full of venom, he asks in quick succession, “Who is he? Why does he know about the program? And why in God’s name should I consider using him?”
Singleton returns with his own string of questions, “Remember the boy? The one that ran away? The only one to ever walk away from this program with all his marbles still in his head?”
Paul grins at this last question. Yes, he retained all his marbles—but he also gained quite a few in the process. He pushes away from the wall, approaches Potter, dons his best smile, and holds out his hand. “Paul Guest.”
Potter stares at Paul’s hand as if it’s a scorpion’s stinger. His eyes scan Paul, but when he speaks, he addresses Singleton: “This better not be a sick joke.” Paul watches his eyes. Even though the menacing tone has not left his voice, there is a definite glint of excitement in those eyes.
Singleton says, “This is no joke, General.”
Finally, dismissing Paul with a glare, he turns to Singleton and says, “You have my attention.”
* * *
He’s completely obsessed, Rob tells Paul. They had planned for a barrage of questions from the General—but it looks as if they would not have to work at convincing him—they hooked him on the first cast of bait. Potter isn’t going to shake his hand, so instead of continuing standing there with his hand floating out in front of him, he retreats to the doorway and resigns himself to lean against the doo
rjamb again.
Singleton relays the story he, Paul, Rob, and Georgia fabricated over the past few days. It’s a good story, a story that Potter would believe, but as Paul watches the General’s face, he’s not too sure they really needed a story. Potter’s eyes are bright and excited. His leg bounces with nervous anticipation below the table. It’s as if he’s ready to spring out of his chair and get this new project under way. Paul and Rob begin to worry that Singleton is going to ruin the magic and Potter is going to begin to smell a rat—that this is too good to be true.
Just when he believes that Singleton has taken it too far, Potter raises his hand and Singleton’s mouth clamps shut in mid-sentence. “Stop, please.” He takes a deep breath.
Here it comes, Rob thinks. Paul nods mentally, ready to act if Potter decides to put his focus back to his gun.
After a few more heartbeats of silence, Potter says, “What do you need from me?”
Singleton’s surprised eyes dart to Paul, then immediately back. He clears his throat. Paul straightens in the doorway and tenses his body, ready to leap to action if things turn bad. He can sense the nervousness spilling off Singleton but continues to hope that Potter remains oblivious to it.
“We need access to your research facility.”
Potter leans back. The gun sits on the table in front of him and his fingers caress it absently. “When?” he asks.
Singleton’s shoulders straighten as if he’s found new courage. When he speaks, his voice regains its confidence. “Now. As you know, General, I’m no longer in the program and Paul here is no longer in the military. We don’t have the clearance nor the means to do this without your help. You have access to everything we need—and to take the chance to see if we can reverse the process is a risk both Paul and Rob are willing to take.”
The Game Page 5
