COLLIDE (The Solomon Experiments, Book #1)
Copyright © 2014 by Christine Fonseca.
July 2014 Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Summary
Seventeen year old Dakota Harrison discovers there’s more to paranormal activity than ghost and cheap mind tricks. Thrown into a world of psychic espionage, she uncovers the secrets her parents desperately want to protect, the ones that kill.
Project Stargate, yet another CIA black op caught up in the wave of recently declassified intelligence, claimed to be training the US military in psychic warfare by utilizing remote viewing and other supernatural phenomena in the battle against terrorism. It was dismantled in late September 1995, following an independent report commissioned by the White House that cited a lack of evidence for the existence of paranormal activity. While the commission did not support maintaining the program, given the recent surge in terrorist acts around the world, Russian claims of advancement in this area of study, and the United States’ unsteady standing in the international community, this reporter can’t help but wonder if the time has come to reauthorize the program and continue the research into transmundane warfare.
- Santa Cruz Daily News, July 5, 2004
Project Stargate 2.0
The Solomon Experiments
Dr. LeMercier’s Personal Journal –
June 29, 2002
Day 1:
The children are assembled, selected from a pool of more than a thousand recruits. It’s exciting to have so many of the former participants’ offspring in this group. I expect Jennings and Harrison to provide strong recruits. We agreed it best if I didn’t know their identities to avoid tainting the experiments in any way. Avoid favoritism. I expect them to pass the weeding, especially with their genetics.
Training begins in the morning. Dr. Tate and I have redesigned the protocols. They are more grueling than the previous tests, designed to push not only the candidates’ physical and mental stamina but also their emotional development. The new program measures every aspect of their supernatural potential, from telekinesis to telepathy and more.
We anticipate better results this time. These children are younger, stronger than their predecessors. Their abilities, unmatched. But will it be enough? I can measure their ethics, but I can’t guarantee their willingness to do everything their country requires.
We’ve run out of time. Global terrorism has reached unfathomable heights. The attacks have increased since 9/11. It’s worse than before, worse than during the Cold War. I fear another Hitler. We should’ve acted swifter when we first discovered Hitler and Stalin’s early research into the supernatural. Instead, we let our fear supersede our responsibilities to keep our nation safe.
Never again.
There will be no safety until we find a better way to train our special forces. Our country will not be free from the terrorism that threatens us until we resume our goal of new, advanced weaponry. These experiments are the key. We cannot fail this time as we have before.
The younger recruits offer something we haven’t had in the past, a way to shape and train their morality. We will be able to push the experiments beyond the confines of humanity. We will bypass ethic concerns and find the recruits we can train to use their gifts in new ways.
We will teach them to kill.
February 5, 2016
NOTHING EVER HAPPENS IN CAMBRIA. Maybe that’s why I can’t wait to get out of here, the sheer boredom of my life. One-hundred-and-fourteen days until I’m gone. Mom won’t be able to stop me. Josh can’t play the school card anymore. I’ll be a high school graduate, eighteen years old. There’s no way they can make me stay.
I stare out of the window of the old Coffee Café and watch the clouds swirl, their dark shades of grey broadcasting a warning of the rain to come. February storms, March storms, April storms; always the same.
One-hundred-and-fourteen days click down in my thoughts, bringing me closer to freedom and a life with more meaning than the tedium of this place. Brushing my blonde layers from my face, I take a sip of my warm chai tea latte, so perfect on this dreary day. An involuntary shudder passes over me as the time continues to beat on, ever slowly, in my head.
“Dakota, hey, you okay? You look lost in your thoughts again.” Elaine’s voice pulls me to the present as she slips into the chair across from me. “Dakota?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was thinking about graduation.”
“And your escape, I’m guessing?” Ever since first grade, she’s always been able to tell what’s really on my mind.
That’s the only nice thing about this small town. Elaine.
“I guess so,” I say. She’s sick of my complaining by now.
“Why do you hate it here so much?”
“What’s not to hate?” Elaine and I will never agree on the let’s-live-in-Cambria-forever issue. “Why do you like it here so much?”
An awkward distance fills the spaces left by our words. The white noise of the crowded coffee bar with people sipping their hot coffees and discussing their big day in Boresville surrounds our silence.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to criticize everything. I just want something more than the same old, same old routine. I what an adventure, something I can feel passionate about. I hate the monotony of this place. Don’t you?”
“I like the predictability. But you need more. You always have.” Her words come out too fast. “I just . . . I’ll miss you.”
I grab Elaine’s hands in mine and release a heavy sigh. “I’m not leaving for one-hundred-and—”
“Fourteen days. I know.” A smile forms on her lips. “I’m not the only one who’s going to miss you.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask as I push back the uneven strands of hair that refuse to stay clipped, and finish my latte.
“Gabe.”
“Whatever!” I choke on the words. “He made his position quite clear, I think. Homecoming? Gracie? I doubt he’ll give two thoughts to me after graduation.”
“Give him another chance. Yes, he was an idiot. But he likes you.”
My thoughts wander to him, the time we spent together. In a breath, my heart speeds up and the unwelcome feelings of longing rush forward. “Way too late for that. Now, if David suddenly came back, that’d be a different story.”
David. My first real love. Or at least, that’s what I’d thought. We met after Gabe’s drama at Homecoming. There was something so familiar about him, so perfect, like we’d known each other all of our lives. We went to Winter Formal together, he gave me a necklace and a promise of forever. And then he left. Seriously. Moved away with no text, no email, no explanations.
Nothing.
“Tall, dark and mysterious? Oh yeah, he was just secretive enough to make him interesting. Just your type.”
“Yeah,” I say as I get up. Just my type. “If he’d stayed around long enough.”
“I guess some secrets aren’t supposed to be known.”
“Guess not.” I chuckle as I walk to the counter, drink in hand. “Can I get a refill?” I ask the barista.
Memories of David’s thick black hair, cream-colored skin and soft green eyes that could see straight through me eclipse my thoughts. My skin erupts in gooseflesh and for a moment, I can’t breathe.
The barista takes my cup and turns away. My face begins to flush. Get it together, I think, willing my body to forget everything associated with David Jennings. My head pounds. The pain increases the harder I work to push aside the thoughts of him, of us. White-hot lightning streaks across my vision as bile churns up my throat. I grip the counter. My hands cramp with the strain. My vision blurs and the images of David’s lips on mine are replaced with a dark garage, the smell of exhaust and excruciating pain.
“Miss? Are you okay?”
The voice, her words, they float around me, meaningless. I grab my head and squeeze, desperate to keep it from splitting in two. Panic seizes my lungs and a scream escapes my lips.
“Dakota?”
“No!” I yell. “Leave me alone!” I take the coffee cup and toss the scalding contents at the noises that won’t stop. “Get away from me!” Too many voices surround me, taunting, teasing. The room spins, spins, spins . . .
My world explodes.
THE ARCHITECT WATCHED DR. TATE LEAVE THE HOSPITAL AT 5:00, JUST LIKE HE HAD EVERY NIGHT FOR THE PAST MONTH. He walked from the elevator to his mid-sized sedan, fumbling for his keys. Sweat dotted his brow, darkening the grey streaks along his hairline. He opened the car and slid inside.
It’s time, the Architect thought. The parking structure was unusually quiet, the air thick with exhaust. She settled herself as Dr. Tate closed the door. The sound echoed against the cement beams and a nervous smile formed on her lips.
His death would be child’s play to her now. After practicing for the last ten years, she had the technique down. Just picture the blood vessels in the brain exploding and poof, Tate would drop dead from an aneurysm before he knew what was happening. Quick. Easy.
The Architect wanted to believe the lie; was desperate to escape the truth she couldn’t afford to accept—killing took a piece of her soul. Every single time.
Dr. Tate pulled his cell phone and began to speak. The Architect stared, her mind wandering through his thoughts. The Doctor knew about death. Murder. He deserved this; he deserved to die.
His memories merged with the Architect’s, transforming her thoughts into a distant sterile lab. Experiments. Mice.
And death.
The Architect tried to kill the mice, tried to make their tiny brains explode. But the feelings overwhelmed her—fear mixed with the blinding hot agony that settled behind her eyes as she pictured the rodent’s death. Dr. Tate ordered her to try again. And again. But each attempt brought more of the animal’s pain to her, causing the bile in her stomach to churn and rendering her useless.
Until Dr. Tate had tried a new approach—self preservation. Dr. Tate had strapped her to the chair, injected her veins with a cocktail of cocaine and heroin, knocked her to the ground and unleashed the vermin. Moments passed before they nibbled at her feet, her hands, her face. Hyped up on the mind blowing poison, she’d slaughtered hundreds of mice as they chewed on her bound flesh. She had no choice. Through her own agony, the Architect could see the rodents’ tiny brains lined with blood-filled balloons. She burst them all. The mice screamed as their lives ended with one sharp explosion. It was a sound she’d never forget.
No matter how many more executions she completed.
The Architect had cut herself off from her emotions that day. She’d channeled her anger and hate into something else, something worse. She’d learned to kill.
Are you ready to prove yourself? the Creator asked.
Her memories of Tate and the lab faded in an instant.
I am, the Architect thought as Dr. Tate ended his call and adjusted his rearview mirror. The engine roared to life, echoing through the still-vacant structure. She had little time to complete the mission before he left. The last thing she wanted was to risk collateral damage.
The Architect’s eyes rolled back and she imagined life from Tate’s perspective. Her vision blurred as she focused on the blue glow of the sedan’s interior dash lights. She forced his fingers around the steering wheel, took a quick breath, and centered her thoughts.
“Your turn to die,” she said to no one.
Dr. Tate slipped the car into Reverse, his foot on the brake. Blinding light split his head in two. Nausea swirled up from his stomach, racing toward his throat as the pain intensified. He gripped his forehead with both hands. Tears welled in his eyes and a strangled gasp came from his mouth. He pressed harder on the pedal as his thoughts shattered into a million pieces. Chaos, terror, agony and regret mixed in equal proportion.
The Architect experienced every moment. Tate’s pain became hers; his regrets, hers. The end came in a single heartbeat. His head fell back and his foot slid off of the brake pedal. Dr. Tate’s sedan rolled, hitting the large SUV behind him. Alarm bells pierced the silence and reverberated around the concrete grave.
The Architect detached and left his mind.
It’s done, she thought as she opened her eyes. She started the ignition of her own black sedan and drove away.
Good. The Creator left her thoughts.
Her lips turned upward as she maneuvered out of the dark parking structure. The setting sun filled her car with pink and orange light. Long shadows told her the time as she sped off toward the Pacific Ocean, pleased. She had passed the test; she’d killed willingly. Acceptance into the Order wouldn’t be a problem now. Her life would be spared.
The others shared a different fate.
Project Stargate 2.0
The Solomon Experiments
Dr. LeMercier’s Personal Journal –
July 14, 2002
Day 15:
The final trial starts today. I’m still optimistic the right recruit is among the eighteen remaining subjects. The group has surpassed my expectations in both physical and mental prowess. Now we start the psychic trials. I can’t predict how this may end, but I suspect the answer lies with Recruit #15. He’s demonstrated strength and a keen mind. Recruit #18 is also impressive, brilliant in every respect save one. She has yet to demonstrate psychic abilities. Even when pushed to her limit. I’m uncertain if she demonstrates self-control unmatched for such a young child, or if she’s useless to our cause.
Of course, 15 and 18 aren’t the only ones I watch. Three others show great potential. Five in all—that would be enough to prove our value. Five highly trained recruits can accomplish more than all of our special forces combined.
If the experiments are a success.
Dr. Jennings worries about the difficulty of training subjects so young. He says I push them too hard and questions the mission’s parameters, the ethics of using children in the first place. The rest of the team expresses no misgivings. Christyn and Tate understand what must be done. Harrison never questions my authority.
Perhaps bringing Jennings onboard was a mistake—one in need of correction.
THE RAIN TAPS ON THE WINDOWSILL, ECHOING ALL OF MY FEARS. I don’t belong here . . .
in this hospital . . .
in this ward . . .
Nothing’s wrong with me. The doctors think otherwise. They say I’m masking my true problems, faking good so I can avoid a residential stay at Mountain View Institute for nut-jobs. They’re right. I’ll do anything to prevent a trip there. Wouldn’t anyone? We’ve all seen American Horror Story. I wrote a report about the mental health crisis in the US, detailing the 20/20 exposé on Mountain View and similar institutions. I know what happens.
I won’t stay. Sure, I freaked out a little. Okay, more than a little. But if you’d seen my daydreams, my nightmares, you would’ve
lost it for a moment too.
The faded image of some familiar old guy grabbing his forehead was one thing. The belief that my head was exploding was quite another. Sensing the presence of someone else in my mind, directing my dreams and controlling my thoughts . . .
Let’s just say the experience guarantees a trip to crazy town.
So I screamed. I threw hot coffee in the face of the first person who tried to help me. I refused to quiet down—not until the random images, too real to be mere hallucinations, subsided.
Anyone would’ve freaked out in that situation.
Wouldn’t they?
I circle around these thoughts in the span of a heartbeat or two. I try to convince myself the visions mean nothing. But I can’t, not completely. The doctors are right to distrust me. If I’m being 100% honest, I don’t trust myself as much as I pretend I do.
I shift my focus back to the rain drops, counting them as they splash in staccato rhythms against the window sill.
“Miss Harrison.”
One. Two.
“Dakota. Are you listening to me?”
Three. Four. Five.
“You need to join the group, Dakota. I won’t repeat myself again. Come, or I’ll report your continued lack of compliance.”
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
The pauses blend together, punctuated by the stilted words of Ms. Whoever, today’s counselor determined to get into my mind and discover the hidden secrets the staff thinks I’ve buried deep within my subconscious. The timbre of her voice is too high to be taken seriously, despite her rough demeanor and strict approach.
“I’m coming,” I say, not really paying attention to anything or anyone.
Today’s assembly of misfits is smaller than yesterday’s. Only three other trapped souls:
Collide (The Solomon Experiments Book 1) Page 1
