by Jacob Gowans
PSION DELTA
OTHER WORKS BY JACOB GOWANS:
Psion Series:
Psion Beta (2010)
Psion Gamma (2011)
The Storyteller’s Tale Series:
Flight From Blithmore (2012)
PSION DELTA
By
Jacob Gowans
Copyright 2012 by Jacob Gowans
All characters, events, and text within this novel and series are owned by Jacob Gowans. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or recorded by any electronic or mechanical means without written permission of the author. For information regarding permission please contact the author at www.jacobgowans.com
Published by Jacob Gowans 2012
Dedicated to Master Sergeant Thomas Garrett and all others whose patriotism burns brightly within their hearts. Tom served twenty-three years in the U.S. military and was claimed by ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease). Our loved ones, though absent in death, live on in our hearts, minds, and spirits. They watch over us and are with us in our hours of need.
Acknowledgements
*
Psion Delta was the last Psion book I wrote before I set out to actually publish anything. I published Psion Beta in 2010. I’d written Psion Delta three years earlier. The Psion Delta you’re about to read is much different than that original draft. Hopefully, it’s better, too. It’s a book I’m proud to share with you. While it has been nice not having to write anything new for a while, I’m excited to start new adventures for these characters. Editing a manuscript, in my opinion, is much easier than forging a new book from scratch. Nevertheless, that’s the task I’m faced with from here on out in Sammy’s adventures, and I look forward to it.
Several people have helped improve this manuscript, mainly my trusted workshoppers. Several started the project, and six finished. I appreciate the help of everyone, but those six deserve special mention. My greatest thanks to Britney Rule, Britta Peterson, John Wilson, Natasha Watson, Jana Jensen, and Benjamin Van Tassell. Also helpful at other times were Shannon Wilkinson and Caity Jones with editing and polishing. If there’s anyone else I’ve forgotten, my apologies and thanks.
As always, I must also thank my wife for supporting me in this work. I am still a full-time dentist, which means that all my writing happens in my spare time while also juggling time with her, our three children, and other activities. Her sacrifices make this possible. I also thank God for giving me this talent and helping me to cultivate it. I also must thank you, Fellow Bookworm, for your support and enthusiasm. I hope you enjoy the latest adventure.
*
PSION DELTA
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
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 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 13
Chapter 25
1.
Interrogation
Tuesday May 7, 2086
“Now, I’m giving the choice to you. Samuel or Albert.”
“Give me time to think, Victor, please.”
“One minute. And if indecision is your choice, she’ll shoot them both.”
“Have me instead. I will give myself up, I swear it! You know I would, Victor. You know it!”
“Thirty-two seconds.”
“VICTOR! You are a better man than this!”
“Twenty seconds.
“Albert.”
“What?”
“Albert,” Commander Byron mumbled the same instant that a small alarm clock on the nightstand next to his bed beeped. He woke up and glared through bleary eyes at the source of the sound. Sweat matted the hair on his forehead and temples. The clock projected a holographic text message, which hovered in the air like a bright blue sign:
0406 Urgent message from General Wu re: Wrobel interrogation. 0406
Byron’s joints and limbs ached in protest as he got up from bed. His eyelids seemed determined to stay closed as he rubbed his face and hair with shaky hands. He breathed heavily through his nose as the dream began to fade from memory.
“Lights,” his croaking voice commanded.
The room obeyed, illuminating Byron’s bedroom. It was a simple dwelling with a small bed, a few pieces of furniture, and several pictures on the walls, all of his family. The bright lights stabbed at the back of his eyes, but helped to clear the mists in his brain. He reached to the end of his bed and grabbed the robe draped across the frame, quickly pulling it on.
“Accept transmission,” he commanded his com.
The wall to the right of his bed changed into a screen. A female Elite soldier appeared. She was young, probably a new graduate of the Elite Training Center. “Sorry to interrupt your sleep, Commander Byron.” Her voice carried all the polish of an Elite, well-trained and eager to observe every formality. He knew these types well. “General Wu asked me to contact you immediately. Doctor Rivera is working with the prisoner Wrobel as we speak. Rivera believes that breaking point will be reached in approximately forty-five minutes. The general is unable to attend and asks that you be there to observe and report.”
The commander had no difficulty keeping his eyes open now. He hadn’t believed Wrobel could be broken. “Victor has been a captive for less than two days. I have a hard time believing that Rivera is so close to breaking him. How sure is he about this?”
“I don’t know, sir, but General Wu requested you to be present—”
“I am leaving now. Tell Doctor Rivera to expect me in thirty minutes.”
Byron hurriedly changed his clothes while ordering his com to send an urgent-status message to Major Tawhiri, requesting that he come to Beta headquarters to oversee the facility in his absence. Once he received a reply, he headed for the roof and left in his personal cruiser. Dark rainclouds filled the sunless sky, but no rain spilled from them. He directed his cruiser northeast toward the ultra-security prison and requested that guards be ready to escort him inside as soon as he touched down.
Elite soldiers flanked the commander as he breezed through all security checkpoints. As soon as he stepped into the Ultramax wing, a middle-aged Asian doctor approached him. She wore a long white coat with the NWG logo stamped on her breast pocket. She twirled her holo-tablet in her hands as she walked forward to greet him and gave him a nervous, anxious smile. Her smile was pleasant and engaging.
“Commander Byron?” she asked with her hand extended.
Byron took it and gave a firm shake. “Doctor Rivera?”
“Doctor Sokama. I’m working with Doctor Rivera on the interrogation of Victor Wrobel. Rivera believes the prisoner will be at the breaking point in ten minutes or less.”
The commander gestured beyond her. “Lead the way, please. Are you new here?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I transferred from the Siberian Ultramax two days ago. Had to pull every favor I had left to get here. This is my first assist on an interrogation of this nature. I trained for it in my residency, but we don’t do many—well, any interrogations up in the tundra. All our prisoners with any information worth extracting get sent here.”
Byron and the doctor walked down a long corridor with cells on each side. The sounds of the soldiers’ heavy boots hitting the walkway followed Byron, reminding
him of the many years it’d been since he had worn the uniform of the Elite. One of the inmates tapped on the thick glass of the cell door as the commander passed. Byron glanced at the inmate, who immediately made a crude gesture and cackled at him.
“Have you been following the protocol General Wu ordered?” Byron asked the doctor for no other reason than to break the silence.
“I have seen to it myself that the protocol is being followed perfectly. I think you will find my performance impeccable. I don’t want to waste this opportunity.”
Another inmate slammed himself against his cell door, startling Sokama and causing Byron’s head to jerk in that direction. The man licked the small glass window, winked at the doctor, and then pounded the door several more times with his fists, head, and feet.
“Probably one of the Thirteens we keep here,” Byron told her.
“Don’t we keep all known Thirteens in this facility?” Sokama asked. “We only ever had one in Siberia, and she was transferred to this place soon after her arrival.”
Byron shook his head. “Not all known Thirteens. Only the ones who act on their compulsions.”
“Is there a difference?” Sokama asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ve read a study—”
“The data was faulty. I read the same study you were about to reference.”
They reached Wrobel’s interrogation room. The Elite stepped forward and used their keys to simultaneously release the locks. This granted Byron and Sokama access to the antechamber. Sokama and Byron then opened the remaining door using their own access codes. As the commander and the doctor went inside, the Elite stayed behind to stand guard in the antechamber.
Wrobel sat on a chair with his legs and arms securely bound via thick, weighted magnetic cuffs. Despite seeing the former commander only twenty-four hours ago, Byron hardly recognized the man who had once been a close friend. Wrobel’s unshaven face had a slight yellow tinge to it. Dried tears and sweat had left white salt spots on his skin. His eyes never focused on anything for more than two or three seconds before closing or shifting in a jerky, animal-like way. Saliva dripped from his lips onto his exposed chest while rivulets of sweat traveled from his freshly-shaved scalp down the sides of his face. His breath came in long, drawn inhalations followed by ragged gasps as though his brain occasionally had to remind him to suck in the oxygen.
Electrodes dotted his chest and head. Five monitors stood around him like robotic guards. One displayed brain wave patterns, another was for vitals, and the rest provided other information Byron didn’t quite remember from his training decades ago. Four special cameras pointed at Wrobel so that a hologram of the interrogation could be recreated to perfection. Dr. Rivera, a portly, balding man of thirty-five or forty, occupied one of the chairs in the room. He was scribbling down notes onto his holo-tab and barely looked up when Byron entered the room.
“Have a seat, please, Commander,” Dr. Rivera muttered, pointing vaguely to the open chairs around him. “I’m finishing some notes.”
“What is the status of your interrogation?” Byron asked.
“In a few minutes I’m going to give him carefully titrated doses of verit-arbiturates. They should do the trick.”
“Verit-arbiturates? Why not brain scanners?
“He’s not mentally sound. We tried scanners . . . twice. On Wu’s orders. He’d give us five answers for the same question and the scanners thought he was telling the truth each time.”
While Dr. Rivera prepared the I.V. drips, Dr. Sokama recorded the displays from the machines and checked the cuffs to make certain everything was as secure as possible. When Rivera finished his work, he and Sokama put a catheter line into Wrobel’s arm and monitored his body’s reaction. The two doctors spoke to each other continuously during the process, often in terms Byron didn’t fully understand.
Wrobel seemed only faintly aware of the events happening around him. He glanced around the room several times, occasionally resting his gaze on Byron for a few seconds and smiling semi-lucidly. It unnerved Byron to think that only two days ago Victor had kidnapped his son and Sammy in a masterful stroke planned weeks or even months beforehand. Even now, at Alpha headquarters, some of the best programmers in the world were trying to undo the damage Wrobel had inflicted upon their security and information systems.
Dr. Rivera returned to his chair while Dr. Sokama stood by the door. The commander offered her his seat, but she politely declined, still smiling in that nervous way of hers.
With his eyes fixed not on Wrobel, but on his holo-tablet, Rivera announced, “You may begin your questioning, Commander.”
Commander Byron moved his chair so he sat closer to Wrobel and could look directly at the prisoner’s face. “Victor, can you hear me?”
Wrobel responded by sluggishly rolling his eyes up to meet Byron’s. The same black deadness was there that Byron had seen when they spoke via a video link between their coms—when Wrobel had asked the commander to choose between Albert’s life and Sammy’s.
“What is your full name?” Byron asked.
“Victor Jakob Wrobel.”
“When did you begin working with the CAG?”
Wrobel’s chest rose and fell multiple times. “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.”
Byron glanced back at Dr. Rivera, who motioned for him to be patient. “Victor, what is the name of the person to whom you reported?”
“The pope,” Wrobel answered in the same monotone voice as before. When he fell silent, the only sound in the room was the beeping of the machines monitoring Wrobel’s vital signs. Commander Byron glanced over to the door where Dr. Sokama observed with an expression of fierce curiosity.
After five beeps, Dr. Rivera broke the silence. “Let me tinker with the dosage for a moment, Commander.” The commander watched as Dr. Rivera put the order into the computer controlling Wrobel’s I.V. line. Wrobel responded by taking a deep breath. The sweat continued to trickle down his face. “His brain wave patterns and pulse both show drops within breaking range, Commander,” Rivera reported. “I’d recommend pressing him.”
Byron locked his eyes on Wrobel, watching the jaw muscles twitch without any sort of rhythm. “Do you hear me, Victor?”
“Yes,” came the reply through half-closed eyes.
“I will ask you questions, and you will give me answers.”
Wrobel’s head rolled to one side and his eyes shut completely. He looked serene and distant.
“Don’t worry, he’s still conscious,” Dr. Rivera informed Byron.
“Who gave you orders, Victor?”
The quivering in Wrobel’s jaw spread to his neck and shoulders, then down his arms until his whole body quaked.
“He’s really fighting it.” Dr. Rivera’s face betrayed his fascination with the situation. “He should be compliant by now.”
Wrobel opened his mouth and gasped. “F—f—f—f—Frodo B—”
“Tell me!” Byron shouted. It was so sudden and uncharacteristic of him that Dr. Rivera’s legs jerked and smacked into the table.
“F—f—f—fox . . . ” Wrobel said hoarsely, then sighed as though he’d achieved euphoria.
Dr. Rivera stepped forward. “It’s still not working.”
Byron continued to watch the prisoner, whose head now rolled on his shoulders.
“Fox . . . fox . . . fox . . . ” he continued to repeat.
Byron raised a hand to stop the doctor. “Wait, this might be something. It could be a last name. Let me continue, please.”
Dr. Rivera nodded and returned to his chair.
“Who is fox, Victor?”
As Wrobel repeated the word “fox,” his head shook back and forth and the jerking movements began again.
“Do you know who the fox is, Victor?”
The head shaking became more erratic and passionate. “Nnnnnn . . . NO!”
“Relax, Victor.” Byron changed the tone of his voice from harsh to gentle. “Do you confess to being a lone co
nspirator in the Rio mission sabotaging?”
“Yeh—yes. . . . ” He dragged out the “s” in an abnormally long slur.
“And planning an attack on Baikonur, giving security details and locations—were you alone on that, too?”
“Yes.”
“Keep your questions simple, please, Commander,” Dr. Rivera advised.
“And you instructed CAG operatives to abandon battle plans?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why abandon the plan?” Byron glanced at the cameras to make sure they were still functioning properly, then he forced himself to take a deep breath to maintain his composure. This effort became futile when the pace of the monitors’ beeps quickened. He glanced in their direction and saw that Wrobel’s blood pressure had jumped twenty points. He looked back to Dr. Rivera who told him to continue with a nod.
“Why did you instruct the CAG to abandon the attack on Baikonur?”
“It was the only way I . . . could get your son . . . Al and Samuel . . . in the same room.”
Byron leaned forward. This was the part he most wanted to hear. “Why were you ordered to kill Samuel?”
Wrobel’s blood pressure jumped again, now to a level outside normal ranges. His sweat fell more copiously as he mumbled incoherently. Byron noticed something strange on the prisoner’s skin and peered closer.
“Doctor, can you come look at this please?”
Dr. Rivera came around the table, and Byron pointed to Wrobel’s temples. “Am I seeing things or is his sweat darker than normal?”
The doctor leaned in closely, a puzzled, squinting expression on his face. “Sokama, what do you think? Sokama?”
The female doctor had left the room. Byron hadn’t even heard the door close.
