Psion Delta (Psion series #3)

by Jacob Gowans

Rivera cursed under his breath. “Where did she go?” He leaned until he was right next to Wrobel’s face. “Maybe a little dark, but it’s hard to tell. I’ll get something to collect a sample.” He turned and spoke into his com. “Page Doctor Sokama and have her bring a vial for collecting a fluid sample immediately.”

  “Shall I continue or wait?” Byron asked.

  Dr. Rivera indicated he could continue.

  The commander refocused his attention on the prisoner. “Victor, why were you ordered to kill Samuel?”

  Wrobel’s head rolled around more. His babbling grew worse. His eyes stared fixed at a single point on the ceiling.

  “Victor!” Byron yelled. “Pay attention! Why were you ordered to kill Samuel?”

  Wrobel blinked twice and swallowed. “Samuel . . . fox. . . .”

  Commander Byron repeated his question a third time.

  “Samuel . . . fox . . . fox. . . .”

  “Why Sammy?” Byron shouted. “WHY?”

  “Sammy . . . twelve . . . twelve . . . fox. . . .”

  Loud beeps came from the monitor. Dr. Rivera swore—this time in Spanish—as he jumped up. “His vitals are climbing again. The interrogation needs to stop until he calms down.”

  Rivera’s fingers pounded out commands to the computer while Byron backed away. The sweat dripping down Victor’s pallid skin grew darker, definitely an unnatural milky gray.

  “Is something the matter, Doctor Rivera?” he asked.

  “Probably a combination of stresses from the drugs, the environment, etcetera. Bringing someone to the mind’s breaking point isn’t exactly easy on the body or the mind.”

  “I need to ask him if there are other CAG agents working for the NWG. Can I ask him that?”

  Wrobel began swaying as much as he could with his arms and legs tightly bound. His face changed to an expression of pain, and the muttering recommenced. The perspiration dripped down his skin like a filthy, leaky gutter.

  “His vitals need to be stable before we can do that,” Dr. Rivera commented. He scratched the bald spot on his head furiously and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “What is going on here? His blood pressure is plummeting?”

  “Is it safe now?”

  “No, the opposite.”

  The edge in the doctor’s voice alarmed Byron. The beeping grew louder again, and Dr. Rivera left the monitors to examine Wrobel. He shined a light into Wrobel’s eyes, shaking his head at what he saw. “No, that’s not—not—this is impossible.” With his other hand, he swiped a sample of sweat from Wrobel’s skin and tasted it, then spat it out. “What have you done?” The doctor grabbed the patient by the shoulders and looked him squarely in the face. “Victor, focus on me. How did you get nitroglycerin into your system?”

  “Twelve. . . . ” Wrobel moaned through a grimace that overtook his entire face. “The woman—she put it . . . into me. . . . ”

  “Who? Who did?” Byron thought he heard a panicky edge in the doctor’s tone, which, knowing the years of experience the doctor had doing these types of interrogations, had him worried.

  “Pupils are dilated. Now pinpoint. Dilated again. What in the—his skin is so warm! The nitroglycerin shouldn’t be producing these effects.” Rivera stood up suddenly. “Unless he’s also been given a catalyst like—”

  “Please explain what is going on here, Doctor,” the commander asked.

  “Oh no. This can’t be right.” Rivera backed away from the prisoner as though he’d caught fire. “We have to get out. We need to get away from him now!”

  Commander Byron pressed the call button to summon the guards for release.

  “Twelve . . . ” Wrobel cried out in agony from a cause unseen.

  “What is happening?” Byron asked.

  “He’s a bomb!” Dr. Rivera jammed at the emergency button on the wall. Peering through the small window in the door, Byron could not spot the guards in the antechamber. “Somehow he’s been turned into a bomb. He’s sweating nitroglycerin.”

  Wrobel shrieked like an animal—not a Thirteen-like noise, but worse. He clenched his teeth together so tightly that Byron saw them fracture and shatter in the front. His body convulsed as if he’d been possessed by a thousand demons. His eyes rolled back into his head until there was nothing but white, and still he screamed.

  Dr. Rivera let out a stream of swear words as he pounded on the call button, then on the door. “Where are the Elite? We’re not going to make it in time!”

  “Get behind me!” Byron ordered.

  The doctor stumbled across the room trying to obey, falling to the floor. Byron threw himself in front of the doctor, hands splayed and ready for blasting. Wrobel continued to scream a sound full of twisted, wretched suffering unlike anything Byron had ever imagined. Steam leaked from Wrobel’s mouth, his face turned red like a blood-filled blister, and then there was a clap like thunder.

  With an intensity so strong that it knocked Byron backward, his old friend exploded with a powerful force that emitted sweltering heat like a crucible. Byron’s blasts shielded himself and Dr. Rivera, protecting them from shrapnel comprised of Wrobel’s cuffs, blown-off pieces of the monitors, and even bits of Wrobel himself. Sprinklers burst to life, spraying water and foam in both the main interrogation room and the antechamber, drenching Commander Byron and the doctor.

  Ignoring the wetness and foam, Byron grabbed the doctor’s coat by the lapels. “Who could have given him those drugs?” he asked. “Wrobel said something about a ‘she.’ Was he talking about Doctor Sokama?”

  Dr. Rivera lay motionless, his eyes wide and face frozen with a look of horror. Byron shook him.

  “Was it someone else? Who had access to Wrobel?”

  Dr. Rivera’s lips trembled like a baby about to cry.

  “Where did Doctor Sokama go?” Byron asked.

  Then Rivera fainted. Fortunately, it was at that moment when the Elite unlocked the interrogation room. The two Elite entering were not the same as the two who had escorted Byron and Sokama into the room. Byron jabbed the closest in the chest with his finger.

  “Find Doctor Sokama!” His eyes blazed as he shoved past them and headed into the antechamber. “I want to know the name of anyone who could have given Wrobel a drug—anyone!”

  One of the Elite dragged Dr. Rivera out of the room by his arms while the other spoke orders into his com. The moment Byron cleared the antechamber, he called General Wu on his com. The line clicked.

  “What information do you have?” the voice of the ancient general asked.

  “The situation here has changed, General.”

  “How?”

  “Commander Wrobel . . . exploded.”

  The general’s breath hissed in the commander’s ear. “Explain.”

  When Byron finished recounting the events that had taken place, the general spoke again. “Make sure the video is safe. Recover what you can. Report back to me by this evening. If you can’t get any video, you had better remember a lot of detail for memory transfer. I need to see you by 1800 sharp. We have a second important matter to discuss.”

  A booming roar ripped the air and a tremendous shockwave shook the prison.

  “What was that?” General Wu asked.

  “No idea. I should go.”

  Several Elite rushed past Byron to start clearing the interrogation room. Dr. Rivera lay on the floor of the hall with his feet elevated, recovering from his collapse. From down the corridor, shouts and jeers of other prisoners echoed through their thick doors in a discomfiting cacophony of noise.

  “The CAG was targeting Samuel,” General Wu continued. “We have no reason to believe they plan to stop going after him.”

  “I understand.”

  “1800. Be there.”

  More Elite stormed through the hallway yelling about an escape in another sector of the prison. The silence on the end of the com link told Byron that the general had terminated the call. Dr. Rivera beckoned Commander Byron to him as he tried to sit up on the floor.

 
“Are you all right, Commander?”

  At any other time, Byron would have chuckled at the irony of the question. “No, not all right. How are you?”

  Dr. Rivera waved Byron’s concern off with a shaky hand. “Never seen anything like that before. I’d be happy never seeing it again.”

  “I agree.” The commander helped the doctor off the floor. “Something is going down right now. Something big, it seems. I need to get you out of the prison.”

  “Is someone in danger? That Samuel person you mentioned?”

  Byron didn’t answer. He didn’t want to think about the answer nor its ramifications. Dr. Rivera, however, seemed to glean even more knowledge from his lack of response.

  With a soft curse in Spanish, he asked, “Is it one of those kids you work with on the western part of the island? What are you going to do about it?”

  They reached the elevator, which as far as Byron could tell, was safe and functional.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why not put the boy into hiding? I’m sure there’s some place he could go where they can’t find him. Won’t they protect him?”

  Byron watched several more Elite pass as the elevator doors closed. Far away from them, he heard the sounds of guards rushing around and boom-guns firing. “Do you know much about guns, Doctor?”

  “No—no I don’t.” He blushed for a moment. “I collect rocks, never fired a gun.”

  “I use guns—many of them. I even test some before we send them out into the field with the Psions. In my line of work, if someone gives me the best weapon in the world, I use it. I have no other choice.”

  “What does this have to do with that boy? Samuel?”

  “He is the best weapon in the world.”

  The elevator stopped at the ground level. Two security officers ran around the corner as the doors reopened, panting, and stopped when they saw Byron and Dr. Rivera. Both saluted the commander.

  “Sir, we’ve searched all over the place. Break rooms, laboratories, supply closets, restrooms. We can’t find any sign of Doctor Sokama.”

  2.

  NWGMC

  Tuesday May 7, 2086

  Sammy awoke in a hospital bed in the early hours of the morning. The last thing he remembered was that there had been a party for him at Beta headquarters and as soon as it was over, Dr. Rosmir had arrived to take him to the hospital where he’d almost immediately fallen asleep. Now, he had the most peculiar sensation that someone had snuck into his head to beat a large drum inside his skull. On top of that, everywhere else on his body either burned, stung, or pulsed angrily. When he tried to raise his hand to his temples, he noticed the bandages wrapped past his wrists and halfway up his arms where glass had cut him from being dragged by Katie Carpenter through a building in Baikonur. Worst of all was his leg, which had been badly sliced by her blitzer’s superheated discs.

  “Hey, baldy,” said a voice nearby. He recognized it as Jeffie’s.

  He tried to sit up so he could see her, but the throbbing in his head became worse. Instead, he remained reclined, but repositioned his body for a better view. She was sitting in a chair by the door across from his bed. Brickert sat beside her holding his body in an awkward, almost tense, position. All three Betas wore hospital gowns and looked like a small subsection of an adolescent psych ward.

  “Hey guys,” Sammy answered as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. “I missed you both at my party last night.”

  “Yeah, we wanted to be there,” Jeffie remarked.

  “But certain events beyond our control prevented us,” Brickert added.

  “Like getting shot. Which sure sucks, doesn’t it, Brick?”

  Brickert made an exaggerated expression of pain. “Every time, I’ll tell you.”

  “I’d heard Wrobel only shot you with tranquilizer darts,” Sammy commented.

  “Oh, only tranquilizer darts!” Jeffie placed her hands on her cheeks in dramatic fashion.

  Sammy closed his eyes to stop from laughing.

  “Fortunately we weren’t stung by bees, Jeffie,” Brickert added, “otherwise we might be up in the ICU clinging on to life.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry!” Sammy exclaimed. “I meant that I thought you’d have been let out of here by now.”

  “Yeah, the good doctor did ask us if we wanted to go home,” Brickert explained, “but we said we’d stay a little longer to say hello.”

  “So we could see what a real injury looks like!” Jeffie said cheerily.

  “You must have gotten hit in the face pretty hard to look that bad,” Brickert said.

  Sammy attempted to bring his hands back up to his face to feel what was wrong, but then he saw Brickert and Jeffie about to break up into laughter again. When she leaned over, he saw the bandages and wound dressings on Jeffie’s sternum; he saw none on Brickert.

  “How’s that healing?” Sammy asked, pointing to Jeffie’s bandage. “All right?”

  “Yeah,” she answered with a shrug. “It hurt pretty bad yesterday, but it’s getting better as long as I don’t breathe too deeply.”

  “Where did Wrobel get you, Brick?” he asked.

  Brickert’s cheeks turned red. “You don’t want to know.”

  Jeffie smirked and elbowed Brickert, who turned to her still holding his body strangely. Then Sammy noticed how his friend favored only half of his butt as he sat. He chuckled so hard his whole bed shook. The laugh hurt and felt good at the same time. “Well, I’m glad you’re both alive and okay.”

  Jeffie’s smile grew as she gazed back at him. “We’re glad you’re okay, too. Has Doctor Rosmir said how long you have to stay here?”

  “Five or six days.”

  “Suck a duck,” Brickert muttered as he shifted his weight to his other leg with a wince. “Sorry, man.”

  “It is what it is, and I can’t do anything about it. Have you guys seen Al? Is he here?”

  “He’s in a different wing of the hospital. Critical care, I think. Right?” Brickert looked to Jeffie for confirmation.

  “But he’s fine, Sammy. Don’t worry. We’re not allowed to visit him because we’re not family, but Byron said he’ll be out in a few days. Same as you.”

  “What happened to your hair?” Jeffie asked. “Last time I saw you it was longer than ever. Now it’s—”

  “Gone,” Brickert finished. “You look like an eight-ball on a pool table.”

  Jeffie snickered as Sammy rubbed his naked head. “Rosmir shaved it. I tried to stop him, but he threatened to knock me out.”

  “Sucks, man. Sucks you have to be here.”

  Sammy didn’t respond. He desperately wanted to be back at headquarters to get back into a normal routine. He wanted to put the deaths of Toad and Dr. Vogt behind him. He wanted to forget an Aegis named Stripe ever existed. He wanted to never think about Katie Carpenter’s frighteningly beautiful face again. And most of all, he did not want to sit through any more therapy.

  But that was exactly what Dr. Rosmir had arranged: several days of meetings, exams, tests, and counseling sessions. Sammy’s best hope was to do well enough that he could be released early.

  Jeffie glanced at Brickert, then looked at Sammy.

  “You want to grab some food?” Brickert asked very suddenly. “The hospital cafeteria is one floor down and it’s a short walk. Best thing is it’s all free.”

  Sammy declined. Even a short walk seemed too far for his aching limbs.

  “Okay,” Brickert said, glancing at Jeffie. “You want something?”

  “Yeah, get me a salad,” she said. “A big one.”

  “The big salad,” Brickert repeated. “Got it. You sure you don’t mind that I go, Sammy?”

  “No—go—it’s fine.”

  Brickert glanced at both of them again. Is he nervous? Sammy asked himself. Or really that hungry?

  “Okay, be right back!”

  Jeffie watched Brickert go, then gave Sammy her full attention.

  “So . . . ” she began in a conversational tone.

  H
e waited for her to continue, but she watched him expectantly. The only sound for several seconds came from the monitors connected to Sammy via electrodes on his chest. Without any effort, his thoughts wandered off to dark places as he subconsciously counted the beeps. Jeffie cleared her throat, startling him. He looked back at her and saw her staring with eyebrows raised.

  “What?” he asked. “Am I missing something?”

  “Yes. You owe me an apology.”

  “I do? Why?”

  Jeffie narrowed her eyes at him. “Our last conversation. The way you acted. You shouted at me. I hadn’t seen you in forever. I’d finally let myself accept,” she looked away for a brief moment, “things—things I didn’t want to. Seeing you was a shock. And all you did was yell at me. You yelled a lot.”

  Sammy thought back to two nights ago when he and she had sat in the cafeteria of Beta headquarters. It was true. He had been extremely rude. He made to apologize, but she put her hand up before he could say anything.

  “It’s okay now. After what you said you’d been through—all that stuff—you don’t owe me anything. I’m glad you’re back and that you’re happier this time.” She glowed as she said these words. Then the glow disappeared, replaced by a hint of mischievousness. “Besides, if anyone owes someone something, it’s me who owes you.”

  “What do you owe me?” Sammy asked.

  Jeffie stood up and took one step toward him. The green in her eyes seemed more intense than Sammy remembered. “Think about it.”

  Sammy found that he had no sensible response, just like other times Jeffie had gotten so close to him. In fact, he was pretty sure his stomach had been turned upside down, squeezed tightly, and then over-inflated with air. He wondered vaguely if this was going to be a chronic problem for him. The strong throbbing in his head dissipated, replaced by a sudden thundering in his chest. Does she really mean to kiss me now? Here? While we’re dressed in hospital gowns?

  She took another step toward his bed, her eyes locked on his. Every thought in his brain that had once seemed clear turned to mud.

  “While you were gone, how many times did you think back to the promise I made you before you left?” Jeffie asked. “You remember that morning, right? When I kissed you on the cheek and made you a promise?”