by Steven James
“No, sir. I was just about to call you. You’re not going to believe this. The woman who visited Ethan was Dakota.”
“What?” Nick gasped, stunned. “My ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Based on facial and gait recognition the system came back with a seventy-eight percent probability.”
Nick evaluated that.
Dakota? That made no sense.
From what he knew, after leaving her job at NCB headquarters a year ago she’d been a security consultant for the private sector, but what was she doing at the hospital talking with a survivor of the bombing? Who was she working for?
There’s still a twenty-two percent chance that it wasn’t her. Maybe it was someone else after all.
“Sir?” the agent said. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m here. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Thanks.”
After ending the call, Nick tried contacting Dakota, but she didn’t pick up, so he left a message: “Hey, listen, this is Nick. Can you call me when you get a chance? It’s important and . . . Well . . . Okay. Talk to you soon.”
* * *
30 kilometers east of Seattle, Washington
She stared at her slate.
A message from Nick?
Was he onto her?
Possibly.
She wondered if he’d found out that she’d been in a parked car observing Wednesday’s bombing, monitoring things, making sure that they went along without a hitch; or if he knew that she’d gone to visit Ethan in his hospital room and found him asleep; or if he’d learned that she had been one of the shooters at the pharmacy last night.
It might be time for a change of plans.
Maybe make an example out of Nick when she returned to Cincinnati?
She would need to sort that out. By the time things were finished at Cascade Falls it might not even matter.
For now, since Ripley had been her primary source at the National Counterterrorism Bureau, she was at a disadvantage in finding out information from them. She had one other covert contact who’d provided her with useful information in the past, a person she hadn’t met and knew only by the codename Phoenix.
So now, going through her secure channels, she sent Phoenix an inquiry for more information about what the NCB knew, but there was no guarantee there would be any coming. And if it did come, when that would be.
She knew that if they found the body of the woman she’d killed last month, it could put even more pressure on her. Eckhart had assured her that he’d taken care of the body, but there was always the possibility . . .
She considered her options.
Until now, she’d been planning to wait here in the warehouse while her team made the move on the armored car, but if the NCB was aware of her role, it might be best if she were present to make sure things went as planned rather than simply assume her team would get everything taken care of.
She told one of her men to stay behind in the warehouse. “I’m going along in the truck.”
“And Eckhart?”
“He’ll be with me. We’ll see you when we get back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
Cincinnati, Ohio
The gate agent was about to close the door to the jetway when we hustled up to her. She gave me a disapproving look, and then, with a sigh, scanned our documentation and let us board.
As we made our way onto the plane, I asked Jordan if he wanted the window seat or the aisle.
“The window,” he said. “I would like to listen in.”
“Listen in to what?”
“Doesn’t the Bible say that the heavens declare the glory of God and that the skies proclaim the works of his hands?”
He was referring to Psalm 19, one I’d preached on in the past. “Yes. It does say that.”
“I would like to listen to them do so.”
I didn’t know quite how to respond to that. Sure, it was possible to take the words of the Psalm literally, but they were also included in a poetic song of praise where figurative language made just as much sense.
He slid into his seat beside the window and stared at the other planes on the rain-battered tarmac. The showers that’d chased us to the airport had intensified into a pretty nasty storm. I hadn’t seen any lightning yet, but if there was any it might keep us on the ground.
Some people can’t sleep on airplanes, but for me it was just the opposite. Being on a plane that was idling often made me drowsy and I found that today was no exception.
I didn’t want to doze off, and for a few minutes I fought off sleep.
But then, I lost the battle.
36
12:00 p.m.
7 hours left
He tries to see the sky outside his window and to listen to what it has to say, but all that’s visible is the rain slanting down from the heavy, low-hanging clouds languishing above the airport and all he can hear is the raindrops striking against the plane like incessant gunfire.
Kestrel sleeps beside him.
Through the PA system, the pilot informs them that they’re experiencing a short weather-related delay, but should be cleared for takeoff in a few minutes, and that, at that point, they’ll be number five on the runway.
A handful of people groan and shake their heads, but most passengers ignore the announcement and either listen to music or stare into the VR headsets provided at every seat, each person ensconced in his or her own private little virtual world.
So close to each other. Yet so far apart.
So very far apart.
Is that what it would be like to be human? To be alone together?
You’re alone now. How would that be any different?
He wonders if they would be so nonchalant if they truly believed what they already know—that this plane might not make it to Seattle.
With the number of hijackings and bombings these days, it is by no means out of the question.
The jet might crash. They might all die.
Death is so close, and with every passing moment edging nearer and nearer.
The longer you live, the more imminent your demise. Every moment takes you closer to the grave.
They don’t believe what they already know.
It is a strange epiphany, and he questions it at first, wondering if this is even possible, this reversal of knowledge and faith.
He reviews his files about human nature from literature. From philosophy. From history, and apprehends that though Naturals and Plussers teach that relationships matter more than monetary gain, almost without exception, they fail to live that way. They spend the vast majority of their lives pursuing what doesn’t matter while neglecting the things that they know do.
How could that be?
Only one explanation: they know those truths, but they do not believe them. For if they did, they would place less value on the trivial and transitory and more on the lasting and the relational. To gain the whole world and yet lose your soul—it is no idle warning. It’s closer to the default setting for the human race.
The way humans live is irrational. You must not emulate it.
He must keep believing what he knows.
For he will die. A Catastrophic Terminal Event.
He knows this.
He must live like it.
And he must continue to believe it.
The first few planes leave the runway. And so, as their pilot taxis into position, it appears that, despite the turbulence they’ll no doubt encounter, they are about to take off.
* * *
Cascade Falls, Washington
Although it might have been more convenient for Trevor to live up in the mountains in Cascade Falls where Terabyne’s headquarters was located rather than in Seattle where he’d resided for the last decade, he could work uninterrupted on the drive and actually enjoyed his daily commute. Over time he’d begun to look at his car as simply an extens
ion of his office.
Now, the vehicle slowed as he reached the west entrance to Terabyne’s four-hundred-acre campus.
Hundreds of protestors lined each side of the road.
In light of this afternoon’s press conference, he’d expected something like this, but hadn’t anticipated that there would be so many people out this early.
On his left, Purist sympathizers were waving signs that read “Stop Playing God!” and “Keep Us Human.”
On the right, counter-protesters brandished signs of their own: “Don’t Fear Progress” and “Purists Are Terrorists!”
The crowds were shouting at each other across the road, a stark divide accentuating how far apart their perspectives were.
If there was this much protesting now, Trevor didn’t even want to think about what things would be like later in the day after the media showed up, or once news about the Synapse began to spread.
Keeping his speed low to avoid hitting anyone who might leap out onto the road, he rolled past the protesters, logged his way through security, directed the car to his parking spot, and then headed to his office to brief his team and make sure the campus was secure for the day.
* * *
Cincinnati, Ohio
Rain pelts the window beside him. Tiny knives, angry at the glass.
Taking off into the storm is choppy, yet Kestrel does not awaken.
He turns his attention to her.
Her breathing has become gentle and rhythmic.
He is curious about sleep. Yes. To understand it.
To observe.
To learn.
He hears the landing gear retract beneath him into the belly of the plane.
To sleep. To be alive. To act more human.
But you’re not human. Don’t act at all. Be. Be who you are.
Because of the aggressiveness that uninterrupted eye contact can convey to humans, he was given eyelids. When he was first awakened by Sarah, his initial owner, he registered the blink as something that briefly and repeatedly disturbed his vision.
But then.
Now.
He finds that he no longer notices it.
Just like a Natural. They don’t notice their blinks either. Or the sound their eyelids make when they blink—unless they focus specifically on them. Unless they pay attention.
And so.
Pay attention or you’ll miss something important.
An obese man across the aisle is gazing at him now.
Curious?
Suspicious?
Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he stops studying Kestrel and redirects his focus straight ahead.
The screen located on the back of the seat in front of him gives him endless entertainment options. A virtual reality headset in the seat pocket offers him the chance to escape from the real world.
He has never used VR before.
Curiosity tugs at him.
He puts on the headset and peruses through the three-dimensional news shows to see if there are any updates about the bombing at the Terabyne plant where his mother was destroyed, but the news cycle has already moved on to other tragedies—the unrest in southeast Asia, a coup in Venezuela, a car bombing in Karachi.
He feels a sweep of sadness.
It matters. All of it does. All of this pain and suffering. All of this death.
For relief, he moves to the next channel and hears the word Terabyne.
He pauses on the program.
Although they don’t report on the bombing in Cincinnati, the announcer explains that there’ll be a press conference later today at Terabyne Designs World Headquarters related to a breakthrough in their ASI research.
The turbulence, which had been getting worse, lessens all at once and he removes the headset.
Looks out the window.
The plane has broken through the storm.
Beneath them, clouds roil and mount, but above him the sky stretches off into brilliant infinity.
A sense of speechlessness overwhelms him. And, just like earlier in the week when he was trying to find words to describe the pain he experienced when he sliced his hand, so now he struggles to encapsulate the abstract concept of glory.
Cramped as I am in this
broken womb-world,
I once again begin
squeezing through the birth canal
toward the thing I fear most—
life.
As before, he wonders what led him to those words—what is the genesis of things made up—but they capture the feeling of rebirth that he’s having. And that is enough.
In the stillness, in the day.
Light.
But new birth lies out of your reach.
Unless . . .
He accesses his files and scours them for any scriptures that can give him hope of finding absolution from his past.
And as he searches, he leans toward the window. To listen. To pay attention. To see if he can catch hold of what the sky is saying and what the heavens are trying to tell him about God.
Pay attention or you’ll miss something important.
37
En route
6 hours left
Though I was aware that I was dreaming, it didn’t make the nightmare seem any less real.
I was at the hospital again, holding my daughter, wrapped in her blanket, but this time she was merely asleep and not dead in my arms. I brought her to my breast to feed her, but when I eased the blanket aside, her face disappeared into a pile of dust that blew away before my eyes.
I fought to wake up and make it all go away, but time lingered there, trapping me in the desolate world of my dreams. Dust and death. Nothing left of my daughter. All sense of her presence blown away in a sudden, somber wind.
I felt myself muttering, “No, no, no,” but I wasn’t sure if I was actually saying the words aloud or just imagining that I was.
Finally, I was able to crease my eyes open and nudge myself back to the brink of wakefulness, my heart throbbing, my breathing rapid and shallow.
Jordan, who’d been staring out the window, turned to me concernedly. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Bad dreams.”
“You were crying out in your sleep.”
“I was thinking of my daughter. Of losing her.”
“I wish there was something I could do for you.”
“Thank you.”
A moment passed, then he assured me, “At least, given time, it will get easier.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Isn’t there a saying that time heals all wounds?”
“Yes, and I wish it were true, but I’m afraid that time doesn’t heal anything, Jordan. As it passes by, it certainly causes more things to vie for your attention, but that doesn’t mean you’re healed.”
“How deep your sadness must be,” he said sympathetically. “If only I could solve it for you.”
“Sadness isn’t something you solve.”
“Then what do you do with it?”
That really was the question, wasn’t it?
“You try to find other things to fill the gaps in your heart. Some people turn to drugs or alcohol to deaden the pain. Others try porn or affairs. Others become workaholics or addicted to exercise. None of those things really work, though. At least not long-term. None of them solve sadness.”
“Religion?”
In my view, religion differed from Christianity. Religion was about how people try to get closer to God; Christianity was about how God is pursuing us. But this wasn’t the time to debate that with Jordan.
“Attempting to get closer to God is one avenue people take,” I said, “although I’m afraid most people just spend their lives diverting themselves from their sadness and pain—music, sports, entertainment, losing themselves on the Feeds, virtual reality worlds where they get to make up the rules and live other lives. Technology offers us limitless opportunities to distract ourselves from the things that matter most.”
“Sadness is
a maelstrom for their souls,” he observed poetically.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s one way to put it.”
Over the years, as I’d counseled others through times of grief, I’d discovered that people are pretty good at hiding, at pretending, at wearing masks. I didn’t want to hide or pretend—I wasn’t very good at either of those things anyway—and I found that I didn’t want to wear any masks either. There comes a time when you just want to set them all aside.
But when you do, the pain of loss can crater in on you until it makes it hard to even breathe.
“If you can’t solve sadness and time doesn’t heal it,” Jordan said, “what hope is there?”
I was about to direct him to the unconditional love of God, to the reality of forgiveness, to the deliverance and joy that faith can bring, but caught myself before I said anything, remembering that he was just a machine and that the solutions we humans find for our sadness would be different from the ones a machine might turn to.
“The CoRA,” I said. “You can have hope because you will live on there.”
“At least my sadness will,” he noted solemnly.
I had no words to console him, but I took his hand, and he held on, the cold touch of his lifeless skin unmistakable to me. I tried not to let it make me think of a corpse’s skin, but couldn’t help it and finally I let go and rested my hand on my knee instead.
* * *
Nick’s team hadn’t been able to locate Ripley, but they did find his car on a dead-end street in a decrepit neighborhood on Cincinnati’s West Side. His slate was inside the vehicle with the Purists’ motto on its screen: “Always free.” Both of his augmented arms were there as well, torn indiscriminately from his shoulder sockets, filaments of flesh and dried threads of bloody tissue still attached to the silicone and circuitry.
Nick quietly reviewed the grim pictures that the agents in Cincinnati had sent him.
Despite his current reservations about Ripley’s trustworthiness, he felt a pang of sorrow.
If Ripley had been killed—and that’s certainly where things were pointing—it was the loss of another life, and when someone you care about turns up dead, you can’t help but grieve, even if you eventually find out that the person might have betrayed you and the things you believed in.
