Eximus

by Marcus Wearmouth

  It was a holo suite.

  “Have you been in one of these before?” Spencer asked.

  “Yes, once, a few years ago. But you already knew that?”

  Spencer shrugged, pointing towards the suit.

  Removing all her clothes, Avery stood naked with her arms at ninety degrees. She knew the search rule to prevent interference or signal interruption. Spencer pulled on plastic gloves as he walked towards her. He finger combed her hair, ran his hands down her shoulders and across both arms and legs.

  She slipped into the haptic suit and stood with her arms again at ninety degrees. Spencer rubbed her back, molding a cold metal strip along her spine. Satisfied with the fit, he squirted gel over her short black hair, smoothing it backwards over her scalp. She took a deep breath before pulling the hood into place. The full face cover restricted her breathing and she took a moment to acclimatize.

  “Take your time. It’s not a pleasant experience.”

  Spencer led her towards the large black chair in the centre of the adjacent room. Leaning back onto the soft leather, the base moved, as it molded to her body shape.

  “Are you comfortable Major?” A different voice, in the hoods receiver.

  “Yes,” she replied, flinching at a needle sting in her arm. “What was that?”

  “I’m going to put you to sleep. When you wake, your test will begin. If you wish to end the test at any time, pull hard on the pinkie finger of your left hand. Understood?”

  “Understood,” She replied.

  Avery waited for sleep to take her. Spencer spoke softly in her ear, before she drifted off.

  “Be yourself, that’s all we want.”

  Chapter 4

  Logan brushed his teeth, a dull headache and dry mouth reminding him of last night. He stared at the mirror, pulling his face in different directions and slapping his cheeks. The toll of a late night was written across his face.

  He paused to listen to sounds of family life. A shout, stomping feet, a blaring vlog show, smells of soap, aftershave and fresh clothes. Bacon and egg aromas drifted up the stairs.

  “Morning guys,” he said. Entering the kitchen and kissing Cate on the cheek as he passed. She didn’t turn but squeezed his arm. A phone in the crook of her neck as she held a one sided conversation with her mother.

  “Dad, Adam stole my socks,” Gregor cried, face crumpled with emotion. His older brother stood behind him, a wicked grin plastered across his face.

  “Adam, give them back please,” Logan said.

  Adam threw a ball of socks at Gregor and ran from the room.

  “Coffee?” Cate asked, sliding the phone along the counter away from her.

  “Perfect.”

  Gregor hopped up onto his lap and looked at him seriously. “Can I come to work with you?”

  “You need to be at school.”

  “Adam says we won’t have to go to school in the future.”

  “Oh yeah, why’s that?”

  “Nuclear war.”

  Logan almost spat out his coffee. It seemed such a crazy notion sat in their kitchen on a normal Monday morning. He paused before replying.

  “There isn’t going to be a nuclear war,” Cate said. She placed a plate of scrambled egg in front of Logan and raised an eyebrow. “The world is too clever for that. You’ll be in school for another ten years, with college after that.”

  “No, no no,” Gregor said, running from the room.

  “Adam get upstairs and clean your teeth,” Cate shouted.

  “I’ve already done them,” he shouted in reply.

  “I don’t think so mister, get upstairs,” Cate held his arm, half pulling Adam out of the room.

  #

  Outside, the icy air bit at his exposed face and hands and bright sunlight blinded him as it reflected from the vast carpet of snow. Ploughed roads cut through the landscape like veins.

  Their town, Lysander, sat between Syracuse and Lake Ontario, an area where heavy snow was routine in winter. Despite the impact of global warming, it still snowed every year. It had been an attraction when they moved to the area from North Carolina. The attraction had worn off over the years. Even so, now and then, the white landscape still stimulated him.

  Logan brushed a thick white chunk of snow from his car hood, aiming large flurries at the boys. They returned fire with snowballs, Cate pulling them away towards school.

  He backed out of his driveway and onto the access road, flanked by embankments and thick with trees that bent with the weight of accumulated snow. He drove in silence, enjoying the calm environment. They lived in a gated community, served by a store and diner. It was one of many other suburbs, built for commuters and protected by private security. Neat parcels of land surrounded by high fences, cameras poking above them like weapons.

  The security guard waved at his approach. Logan nodded back, not bothering to crack a window in this weather. The guard was dressed head to foot in chunky black clothes, as if he was about to go skiing. He raised the barrier and Logan drove through, turning left onto the forty eight. It was a fifty minute drive to Nine Mile Point. Usually it was a perfect time to reflect on life and problems. Always problems. Today, all he could think about was the safety of a salt mine.

  As a younger man he had paid little attention to world events, unless they affected his small pyramid of existence. He was privileged compared to most, good school and transition to university. He played soccer, partied and graduated in Nuclear Engineering with honors. The qualification got him straight into a well-paid position at the plant.

  After a few years in a Syracuse apartment, they were able to afford a house in Lysander. The development had a good sense of community filled with other professionals like Rich and Caspar.

  Their world was far removed from unrest at home or abroad. In Lysander, folk complained about taxes, transport, waste disposal and the nuclear plant. There was little concern for global problems. In their world everyone looks upwards, towards a bigger house, new car or exotic holiday.

  He caught the sight of a figure in the middle of the road, silhouetted against the bright morning light.

  Shit

  Pressing the brake hard, his car fishtailed. The momentary loss of traction corrected itself immediately via the on-board vehicle safety system. He mouthed a curse as he passed. The figure was dressed in a black cloak, straw sticking out of its arms and legs. It was a scarecrow.

  Logan blew his breath out, heart beating faster as he checked the rear view mirror. It would be stupid to stop and investigate. The dummy was dressed like a Ghost, so he was lucky to escape whatever trap was there.

  His technical operation manager, Jarod Washington, always joked that Logan was charmed. Jarod would tell stories of his early life in Baltimore. ‘You needed to be part of a group to survive,” he would say, “A show of strength to keep the Ghosts away’.

  He remembered the President’s speech from years ago. The spark that kick-started the Ghost movement. “There are a growing number of people in this country we have forgotten. Pushed to the bottom of the pile and held their by circumstance. They have no medical records, schooling or security records. They’re like Ghosts”.

  The media seized upon the existential words and Ghosts became reality. Men and women flocked to become Ghosts, disillusioned by their lives at the bottom of an oppressive and weighted society. Some neighborhoods were ostracized. Police didn’t patrol there. Only controlling borders to ensure the rest of society were protected. When an incident led to army involvement, the resulting death toll caused a mini civil war and now the curfew.

  It wasn’t only the warnings of Caspar and Rich that set him thinking. Panic was beginning to spread in the world, he could feel it. Political, economic, religious and environmental problems were lining up like plutonium and uranium atoms. It would only take one rogue neutron to strike an opposing isotope and boom.

  Russia, China and Iran had been slowly taking over half of the planet. Muslim extremists bombed and killed at rando
m. The climate was changing and causing more earthquakes, tidal waves, hurricanes and famine. Even at home people organized themselves into factions. Those who had more money or lived in a certain area or worshipped the same god.

  In an attempt to clear his head, Logan switched on the radio. An upbeat song filled his car and he tapped the wheel as he drove.

  The Buffalo riot and explosion led the news at eight. The newsreader described a chaotic bloodbath involving the deaths of at least fifty civilians and soldiers. His voice became hoarse when he read details of the car bomb and Court Building explosion.

  Logan turned the radio off, preferring his own thoughts to those of the media.

  Nano tech had been the catalyst. Blue Flu and other pandemics were neutralized by the new technology. Yet, social problems in the world increased along with populations. Successive government policies created such a vast difference between rich and poor, they were almost different species. Local and national leaders argued about solutions. While Logan and everyone he knew watched from behind their safety nets, aware of the problem but considering it someone else’s.

  The cooling tower of his nuclear power plant poked above the right hand embankment. The sight of it suddenly released pent up tension, and he realized with surprise he had been holding his breath.

  Located on the bank of Lake Ontario, Nine Mile Point had been his work home for fifteen years.

  He took the exit and continued along the heavy steel link fencing that bordered the site. Immediately in front of him, four guards stood around Checkpoint one. As Operations Manager, he was responsible for the day to day running of the plant and ancillaries. A position he’d held for almost four years.

  Logan knew the guards by name. Even so, his vehicle was inspected every time he entered the plant. Standard procedure, but he couldn’t imagine Barney, their Vice President, waiting patiently for daily scanning.

  #

  At ten o clock, Logan entered the boardroom for a routine Monday meeting. A large rectangular room painted white with an oval table in the centre. Large windows at one end and a large projector screen at the other. His place was marked by a small name card. Pads of paper, pencils and bottles of water were set out on the table.

  “Late night?” Charlie Kilgrew asked, sliding into the chair beside him

  Logan stared back, his face flushing uncontrollably. She could have been approached by Caspar. Charlie was frowning at him, her hair pulled back accentuating the lines on her forehead. It seemed likely Caspar would know others who worked at the plant and a Human Resource Manager would be useful.

  “Your eyes man, you look like you haven’t slept for a week,” Charlie said.

  “Oh, yeah. Gregor was up in the night,” he lied.

  “Don’t worry it gets easier. Anyway I need to talk to you about shift patterns for the next month.”

  “I can’t spare anyone, we’re already stretched,” Logan said.

  “Barney’s orders, speak later though, he’s here.”

  Barney Fairfax entered through a side door, opened by an invisible hand. He walked like he was stepping into tires on an obstacle course. Iron grey hair and matching moustache. He wore a tailored blue pinstripe suit over an open necked white shirt. At sixty one, he was their long standing VP. A man Logan both respected and admired. He caught an aftershave scent as Barney passed his chair. The man was like a bar of soap. Small, hard and fragrant.

  “Morning all,” he said.

  “Morning Barney,” Logan said, echoing others in the room.

  “Despicable scenes in Buffalo last night, thank god for our brave soldiers. This isn’t a time for sound bites, but the hand of history is on our shoulders. Climate change, natural disasters, riots, terrorism and war -these tensions across the globe and at home, are leading some to suggest we should close our doors, plan for the worst. To those people, I say come down here and see what a committed team of professionals can achieve. We are the light of this land, physically and metaphorically.”

  “Well put Barney,” Charlie said, adding to rumbles of agreement around the table

  “I don’t want any one of you to offer me negativity. We’re not Fitzpatrick. Turn a negative into a positive. Tell me what you’re going to do about it, or give me ideas for improvement.”

  “I have the report on head count you asked for.” Charlie said. “I’ve been discussing your plan for a small reallocation of resource with Logan,”

  “Excellent, any problems?” Barney said, directing the question at Logan.

  “Well, I haven’t had chance to fully understand what Charlie is recommending. We’ll have a meeting once we finish up here.”

  “Very good, bring me in if you have any difficulties with the changes.”

  The meeting progressed into departmental reporting, allowing Logan to consider the salt mine project. It seemed like a fantasy. The idea could land him in more trouble than he could handle. If he lost this job then they would have to move across the country, even overseas. But if he didn’t act and the worst happened how else would he protect his family? What would be the harm in checking it out? He could visit with Jarod, get a feel for the place and arrange three dimensional mapping. Then make a decision.

  His arm was prodded and he looked up. Ten faces around the table were staring at him. Barney pulled back a shirt cuff to check his watch. “Well?”

  Logan swallowed.

  “Are you ready for the audit next month?” Barney asked.

  He relaxed slightly and paused for his mind to catch up. “The dummy audit was concluded last week. Results analyzed and improvement checklists sent to all department heads.”

  “You’re a day dreamer Logan. Kindly climb inside your head in your own time,” Barney said. Charlie squeaked beside him and others sniggered and chuckled around the table.

  Barney brought the meeting to a close after another half hour. He preferred brevity above all else. The real organization was conducted in micro meetings, where he gave individual instructions. He threw Logan a meaningful stare before he rose and left the room.

  “Charlie, you really know how to drop me in it,” Logan whispered.

  “If you’d read the report. I emailed it last night. What have you been doing?”

  “Having a life. Come down to my office and we can go through it together.”

  They walked the short distance to Logan’s office, taking seats at either side of his desk. Logan waved a hand and a screen appeared above the table. He found the human resources report and touched the link.

  “So what’s the emergency?” Logan asked, after reading the executive summary.

  “I honestly don’t know. These are Barney’s orders. You’re losing two techs for the foreseeable future,”

  Logan scanned the documents meaningless jargon and standard paragraphs. “I have no option but to agree?”

  “They’ve been seconded to one of Barney’s projects. Off plant.”

  “Do I get to pick them or has that already been decided?”

  “You can see the names in section seventeen,” Charlie used a laser pen to highlight two names on the screen.”

  “Lynch and Maclean. Jarod won’t be happy. They’re two of his trusted men.”

  Charlie raised an eyebrow. “These orders are from the top. Neither of us can do anything about it, so don’t even try.”

  “We’ll need temporary labor to cover these losses.”

  “Contact the agency and tell them what you want? Just don’t have them repairing your house.”

  Logan gave her a wink. “I do need the house painting but that’s all, I promise.”

  Charlie rose and pushed back her chair. “I’m away from tomorrow for a few weeks, taking the family to Quebec for a few weeks skiing.”

  “You’re a lucky lady. Have a great holiday if I don’t see you before you go,” he said, guiding Charlie to the door.

  “Thanks, I hope the new rotation doesn’t cause you too much stress.”

  Logan slipped out of the office behin
d her, avoiding eye contact with anyone else in the building. He typed a message to Caspar as he walked towards the administration building. An immediate reply came back confirming, ‘he would have the kettle on at home’.

  The maintenance block was a marked contrast to the public facing administration centre. Logan shivered as cold wind cut through his suit jacket and shirt. The building was functional with a flat coursed brick facade and low pitch sheeted roof. White plant vehicles of differing shapes and sizes faced the front elevation. He jogged towards the entrance, a breath of warm air rolled over him as he opened the door.

  A reception area divided the ground floor between a workshop and logistic stores. Logan waved at the receptionist to his right, as he walked towards the concrete staircase. The man was talking at his screen, but returned a wave.

  As Logan turned towards the staircase he bumped into someone running in other direction. Two hands shot out to hold him upright and the beaming face of Sean appeared in front of him.

  Logan pushed him back and straightened out his shirt and tie. “Are you crazy?”

  Sean beamed back at him. “Like a fox.”

  He was a wiry man of medium height. His pasty face constantly grinned below a mess of curly red hair. Sean was the fly in ointment, the flea in the ear, the most irritating man in the plant.

  “Don’t run in the office.”

  “Right you are chief,” Sean said and saluted.

  Logan pushed past him and took the stairs two at a time. The first floor layout contained management offices, a conference room and small kitchen. Jarod’s office occupied the front right hand corner of the building. It matched his personality in size, being the largest in the block. He was the heartbeat of the plant. Having worked there since it became operational thirty years ago.

  They first met fifteen years ago, on Logan’s first day at the plant. The burly shift manager asked him, to the delight of his assembled crew, who he was. Logan baulked in front of the scrutiny and stuttered ‘I’m an Engineer’. The name had stuck.

  Logan knocked once, entering the office to find Jarod on a VR call. He took a seat on the other side of the desk and waited. Jarod was dressed in a dark blue shirt with open collar. It stretched across his bulk, buttons poised to ping off like bullets. His hair was a thick grey, cut short on the sides and back. Brown eyes twinkling as he waved. He had the look of an aging ex-football player.