Willpower

by Anna Durand

  She closed the test sites spreadsheet and opened a different one. This was the file that listed "travelers" and contained links to a password-protected website. She would not click the links this time, but she wanted to have another look at the list of so-called travelers. David and Sean were both on the list, which included about two dozen names. The first time she'd looked at the file, she had skimmed it and pretty much stopped when she got to David's name. None of the other names had meant anything to her. Now she scanned the list more carefully. At the bottom of the spreadsheet, she noticed two small tabs that had escaped her attention the first time around. One tab was labeled "Current," while the second was labeled "Former." The spreadsheet she was looking at now must include only travelers currently participating in the project, if participating was even the right word. They seemed more like prisoners. The second sheet must contain the names of travelers who had left the project, whether willingly or forcibly.

  Her mouth went dry. She had a feeling forcibly meant one thing — dead.

  Unscrewing the cap on her bottled water, she sipped the cool liquid and clicked the tab labeled "Former." Another list of names appeared on-screen.

  Her heart thudded. The first name on the list was "Janet Austen."

  When she told Leroy Bevins her name was Janet Austen, she'd thought the name popped into her head at random. Jane Austen, the name that had first come to mind, was a famous writer. Grace had read her books back in high school, so she assumed the name surfaced from the depths of her mind in the random way memories often did. The other day when she looked at this spreadsheet, she hadn't noticed the tabs at the bottom and, therefore, hadn't seen the second list of names. It seemed far too much of a coincidence that the name Janet Austen both appeared on the list of travelers and randomly occurred to her when she needed an alias. It must mean something.

  She must've seen the list before. Months ago. During the period obscured by her amnesia.

  Lifting a hand to touch the screen, she ran her finger tip under the entry in the spreadsheet.

  Traveler: Janet Austen. Designation: Unknown, suspected GP (Level unknown). Accuracy: 99.99859.

  She desperately wanted to click the website link. If she did, however, JT might track her as he or his minions had done before.

  Hell, they knew she was coming anyway. And if she just took a quick look at the web page, maybe they wouldn't have time to pinpoint her location.

  She clicked the link. The website loaded and, as before, software installed on the flash drive logged her into the password-protected page. It was a status report for the traveler called Janet Austen, similar to the status report she'd seen for David. But this one did not record the traveler as in transit.

  Status unknown. Location unknown. Priority target, reacquisition in progress.

  Her mouth went cottony again. She swigged water, but it didn't help. Reacquisition in progress. What the hell did that mean? And why did it bother her so much? She was not Janet Austen.

  She went back to the list of files on the drive. Most of the files had unhelpful names that looked like random letters and numbers. She opened one. Gobbledygook. It was some kind of computer code, she guessed, or else an alien language. She opened two more files but found similar garbage. Well, it was garbage to her anyway. This was no help. She switched back to the spreadsheet of travelers' names.

  Janet Austen was suspected to have GP, whatever that meant. Since Ms. Austen was a "former" traveler, did that mean Waldron or some other goon had killed the poor girl? No, they were reacquiring her, which sounded like she was still alive.

  Raising her hand, she touched the letters on-screen that spelled out Janet Austen.

  "It's you."

  Grace jumped six inches off her seat, but managed to squelch the yelp that tried to burst out of her. The voice had come from behind her. She turned to see David standing there, gazing down at her with a noncommittal expression, as if he hadn't just scared the bejesus out of her.

  "How long have you been there?" she asked, unable to suppress the annoyance in her voice. She got a little testy when every nerve in her body snapped simultaneously.

  "A minute," he said, kneeling beside her chair. "You looked engrossed. I didn't want to intrude."

  "Since when do you care about not intruding?"

  He looked down at his hands. "Since last night."

  Oh. Last night. She felt a blush rising in her cheeks.

  A change of topic was in order. Immediately.

  "What do you mean it's me?" she asked.

  He met her gaze, his features tightened in confusion.

  "A minute ago," she said, "when you surprised me, you said — "

  "Oh." He pointed at the computer screen. "Janet Austen. That's you."

  She frowned. "There may be a lot I don't remember, but I do know my own name."

  "Janet Austen was a pseudonym."

  "Why on earth would I use a pseudonym?"

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized one awfully good reason why she might — to evade the monsters who were chasing her at this very moment. Yet those monsters ran the project.

  No, at first her parents had run the project, at least that's what David said. She needed to know a lot more about the evolution, or devolution, of the research project begun by her parents.

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the restroom. Though she couldn't see Earl, she heard banging and thumping, accompanied by muffled curses, emanating from the small room. Below the other sounds, the rushing of water continued.

  David still hadn't answered her question. Turning to him, she said, "Explain to me about this project and why I used a pseudonym when I participated in it. Come to think of it, I don't have the slightest idea why I would've participated in the project either, so explain that too. Please."

  He pursed his lips.

  She folded her arms over her chest. "Tell me. I don't have time to remember on my own."

  He stared at the computer screen for a second, then let out a sigh that seemed to deflate him. When he spoke, his tone was resigned. "I've only been trying to protect you. As you've pointed out, I've done a terrific job of it."

  The bitterness in his voice made her want to hug him. Instead, she reached out a hand to touch his arm. Her fingers went through him like he wasn't even there. Which, technically, he wasn't. Every other time he'd visited her, he manifested a body.

  She tried to touch him again, with the same result. Fingers through air.

  Seeing her efforts, David released another sigh. "I didn't manifest. It takes a great deal of energy, and I don't want to waste any. I might need it very soon."

  She clasped her hands on her lap. He might need all his energy very soon because she insisted on breaching a super-secret facility run by a psychopath and his merry band of homicidal puppets. The fact that David had tried to protect her and achieved something less than resounding victory was hardly his fault. It was hers.

  Stop it. The blame lay not with her or David. It lay squarely on the shoulders of JT, whoever the psychopathic punk was. He must be stopped.

  "Project Outreach," David said, snapping her attention back to him. "That's what it was called in the beginning. Christine and Mark — your parents — founded the project after they started working for ALI. Edward had brought them into the company. It was a legitimate enterprise with noble goals, and the three of them did a lot of good work there. Outreach was designed to explore the limits of psychic abilities."

  Grace watched his face as he spoke. The tension had dissipated, replaced by a look of … fond remembrance seemed the best description. He must've liked the project back then, back when her parents and grandfather held the reins. He had clearly liked them anyway.

  "You see," David continued, "other scientists had conducted studies that resulted in compelling evidence for the existence of psychic abilities. Humans could
influence computers, for instance by changing a random sequence of numbers so that it was no longer random. Christine and Mark wanted to expand on the existing research, rather than conducting another study trying to prove psychic faculties are real. They spent a year searching for test subjects, screening and rescreening them until they felt certain the group they'd assembled had genuine extrasensory faculties."

  His lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile. "Everything was good at first. Thirty of us participated, voluntarily, as test subjects. The scientists — Christine, Mark, Edward, and half a dozen others — treated us with respect. It was like a family." He glanced at her sideways. "Then you came."

  She squirmed in her chair. Despite what had happened between them last night, she still wasn't sure she wanted to hear about their previous relationship. It was too weird. But she must hear about it. She must know everything.

  "You came for a visit at first," he continued, "but your parents got permission to show you the facility. It was out in the desert, underground, to limit interference from radio waves, human thoughts, and basically anything that might affect psychic abilities." He shifted position, as if an incorporeal man could get muscle cramps. "Anyway, you thought it would be fun to take one of the basic screening tests, just to see how it worked. Christine and Mark indulged you. No one expected the results to be positive — but they weren't just positive, they were off the charts."

  Grace tucked one ankle under the opposite knee. A feeling of tightness started in her chest. If she didn't get a grip on it soon, the tightness would escalate into panic. She knew how this story ended.

  A road. A deer. Blood.

  Swallowing her discomfort, she said, "And then … "

  "We got to know each other. You joined the project, as a test subject, against your family's objections. You wanted to understand your own power. And so did they, really, though the thought of experimenting on their own daughter was a little discomfiting. But you insisted." He smiled at her, that sweet and sexy smile that made her insides turn to Jell-O. "You were always stubborn."

  She couldn't help smiling back at him. "Like you're not."

  They just looked at each other, their gazes fused. The memory of last night flowed through her as a warm river of emotion and sensory recall. Though his expression stayed the same, she sensed that he was experiencing the same memory. She wanted to kiss him, but they were in a gas station and he had no physical form.

  "What happened next?" she asked. "I mean, things went bad at some point."

  David's smile disintegrated. "A year and a half ago, ALI was bought out by a multinational corporation called — "

  "Digital Prognostics."

  "Yes. How did you know?"

  The scanned articles on the flash drive had told her. A man named Jackson Tennant ran Digital Prognostics. The truth hit her like a brick to the head. Duh. How could she have overlooked it before? Her telephone tormenter, JT, must be Jackson Tennant. A psycho owned and operated Digital Prognostics, the company that ran the Mojave Desert facility.

  "How did you know?" David repeated.

  She shrugged. "Grandpa told me. I take it things changed after the owners took over."

  He nodded, his expression darkening. "Most of the scientists were fired and replaced with wonderful fellows who saw no ethical dilemma in using drugs to control us, the test subjects. Sessions that had lasted an hour at most were lengthened to several hours. We were pushed to our limits and beyond, no matter the physical or mental consequences. Some died. Some went insane. A group of eight tried to escape from the facility." His jaw tightened, and the muscle jumped. "They were gunned down in the desert. Another benefit of a remote, secret facility is that there are no witnesses."

  Grace felt sick. She took a sip of water, which didn't help. Eight people murdered — and that had been only the beginning.

  A man's face flashed in her mind and she asked, "Did you know Andrew Haley?"

  "Yes. He was one of the subjects who went mad."

  "He escaped. I met him."

  David shook his head. "Nobody escapes. Edward managed to smuggle Andrew out of the facility and to a mental hospital. Our masters didn't know where and Edward refused to say. It made them extremely angry."

  "Why just Andrew? Why didn't Grandpa help anyone else?"

  "There wasn't anyone else, except for me and Sean. The eight were the first to die, but not the last."

  He looked straight into her eyes, and the blue fire in them burned as intensely as it had on the first night she saw him — the first night she remembered seeing him. Every time he focused on her like this, she felt a connection to him, an intimacy beyond the physical. He knew her. She knew him. Maybe she couldn't recite his favorite foods or pick his favorite movie out of a lineup, but she knew him.

  "Sean and I were okay," David said, "so Edward left us behind to keep an eye on things. He was already afraid for your safety."

  "Why did I use a pseudonym? My parents ran the project."

  David lifted a hand as if to touch her and then pulled back, apparently remembering he hadn't manifested. "From the start, Christine was worried that their research could be used for unsavory purposes. Mark thought she was paranoid, but he agreed to keep your name out of all records."

  "What about the rest of you?"

  "We knew the risks. Well, we thought we knew them anyway. No one could've predicted what would happen after the new management took control."

  She felt a little weak from the dread swelling within her. She pressed on anyway, because she had no choice anymore. "How did my parents die?"

  "We have to go back a bit further for you to understand." He stood and began pacing between the front windows and the table. "The trouble really started two months before they died."

  Nine months ago

  Christine Powell strolled down the corridor, the heels of her penny loafers slapping on the floor. Under her right arm, she held a clipboard tucked against her body. In her left hand, she twirled a silver-colored metal pen. The corridor lights reflected off the pen, shooting slivers of brilliance onto the walls and floor. Amid the twirls of light, her reflection shimmered on the smooth flooring like a spectral mirror image.

  She kept her chin raised as she focused on the doorway ten feet in front of her on the right side of the corridor. The door hung open, the lights inside throwing a rectangle of yellowish light onto the corridor floor. Voices murmured within the room.

  At the doorway, she hesitated. Her gut fluttered. Her fingers slipped, letting the pen clatter to the floor. As she bent to retrieve the pen, she whispered a mantra under her breath. "You can do this, you can do this."

  Straightening, she stuffed the pen into the breast pocket of her lab coat. She could do this. It was a meeting, nothing sinister, simply a meeting to introduce the new head of security.

  Then why did she feel as though she'd swallowed a lead weight?

  A familiar voice from within the room called to her. "Come in, Christine. We've been waiting for you."

  Edward McLean's voice bolstered her resolve, and she strode into the conference room. Her father sat in a leather chair positioned at the far end of a long table that stretched the length of the room. He motioned for her to take a seat. Though he tried to smile, the expression faltered, which only served to deepen the lines around his mouth and eyes. Christine marched down the table to lower herself into the chair nearest him. He had saved the seat for her. He always did.

  At her left, Mark slumped in his chair. Worry lines wrinkled his forehead as he squinted into vacant space. With his elbow propped on one arm of the chair, he tapped his index finger against his lips.

  Behind her father, a serious-looking young woman hunched in a folding chair. Her hands hovered over the keys of the notebook computer that balanced on her knees. Her name was Vanessa or Theresa, or something like that. Christine shrugged inwardly. The girl ha
d worked at the facility for less two weeks and Christine was terrible at recalling names. After a few more weeks, maybe she would remember the girl's name.

  It was Vanessa, she decided, because she needed to attach some name to the efficient-but-stoic secretary.

  Across the table from Christine, a man with short gray hair sat straight as a column. His elbows rested on the table, while his hands were intertwined to support his chin. Freckles dotted his face. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. Beside him sat another stranger. The second man had dark brown eyes, chestnut hair peppered with gray, and a muscular physique somewhat disguised by the loose-fitting suit he wore. His face, like a movie screen before the show started, displayed nothing yet held the prospect of coming attractions. Her throat tightened. She had the oddest feeling that whatever lay ahead, she must avoid it at all costs.

  Mark fidgeted.

  She leaned close to him. "Who are those men?"

  "Don't know."

  "What's this meeting about?"

  Mark sat up, smoothing his shirt and lab coat. His tie was askew. "Must have to do with the buyout."

  Yes, Christine supposed he was right. A much larger corporation had recently purchased ALI, in what her father had characterized as a hostile takeover.

  Edward cleared his throat. "Now that we're all here, let's begin. We have some new colleagues to welcome."

  As he ended the statement, his face pinched. He glared at the newcomers. Confused, Christine awaited the introductions. Perhaps then she would understand the tension electrifying the atmosphere.

  Edward waved at the dark-eyed man. "This is Xavier Waldron. He has something to say."

  Waldron rose. Strolling behind the chair in which the gray-haired man sat, he settled his hand atop the chair's back. The other man stiffened, though he tried to hide it under a pretense of adjusting his posture.