The Northern Star Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by Mike Gullickson

  “Hello?” Antoine screamed. He looked at the boy. Once again the boy had his head cocked like someone was speaking to him.

  “Who are you talking to? What’s going on?” Antoine said.

  The boy’s eyes went dark. Not dilated. They turned completely black, deeper than black. Antoine searched the hallway frantically and then retreated away from the boy. The boy rose into the air and floated as if he had been crucified. And then the room snapped like rubber. Antoine fell to the ground and when he looked up, a purple and white pulsing snake was growing from the boy’s mouth. It slid between the bars toward Antoine. He ran to the back of the cell and scraped at the wall until his fingers bled. And when the amoeba snake attached to his head, he screamed in horror. But no one heard him, because he wasn’t there.

  Antoine had been drugged unconscious two minutes after he was put on the train. He was now five miles underground in Virginia, two hundred feet away from the King Sleeper who was now rummaging through his mind, learning everything about him, from his first kiss, to his greatest disappointment, even how he used to kill frogs for fun. The King Sleeper hunted down information on the Western Curse, liquefying Antoine’s synapses as he went. No reason to be gentle, Justin’s father had told him. This man was going to die anyway.

  = = =

  “Mohammed Jawal,” Lindo said. He was in a virtual situation room with the President, General Boen, multiple military advisors, and an abnormally detached Cynthia Revo. He went through the material he had torn from Antoine, who was now a pile of ash that had been tossed into a field.

  “I know him,” General Boen said. He had met Mohammed years ago at the White House.

  “Yes, many of you have shaken his hand. My intel didn’t give me all of his motivations, but he is the head of the Western Curse.”

  Evan quickly read Mohammed’s bio to the group and then he brought up a current photo on large screen. It was a jigsaw puzzle. His eyes were there, his mouth, his hair, but his forehead and the sides of his face were completely gone, just a low-resolution approximation of his skin tone.

  “Why is the photo weird?” one of the advisors asked. Lindo ignored the question. It was “weird” because it had been pulled from Antoine’s mind and people focus on certain parts of another person’s face. Antoine hadn’t really noticed Mohammed’s forehead or cheeks. So it wasn’t there.

  “This is as up to date as we have. If we cross reference it with a previous picture.” Lindo did so. It was a full body photo of Mohammed clean cut, standing next to a former President. “We have this.”

  The photo was perfect.

  “This is our enemy,” Lindo said.

  “Where is he?” the President asked.

  “Somewhere in New York. We’re searching.”

  Online. That’s all the King Sleeper is doing; looking for this motherfucker.

  But Lindo kept that to himself. He still had full charge of the King Sleeper. He looked around the room. All of them had the digital worm buried somewhere in their brain, dormant unless Evan wanted it to wake. The folks in this room were on a need-to-know basis and, well, they weren’t important enough.

  = = =

  Cynthia pulled the Mindlink off her head without saying goodbye. In the situation room, she just vanished. She curled up and sobbed. She couldn’t do it anymore. Sabot was right and her ego had kept her blind to his revelation. She had been on anti-anxiety pills since she had confronted Sabot at his mother’s home.

  Afterwards she had searched her soul and instead of her conscience coming clean, it had morphed into a constant critic of her life.

  “Loser,” it whispered in her head when she woke up.

  “What makes you so special?” her mirrored reflection would suddenly say.

  She was losing it and she knew it, but a shrink was out of the question. At her office, she pressed her forehead against the window and peered down. One hundred and fifty stories. Her eyes traced left to where the glass met the frame.

  One inch glass.

  She pictured herself falling, her short hair violently pushed back, her cheeks rippling from the air resistance, the pedestrian’s wide eyes as they scrambled out of the way as she shot toward them at one hundred and twenty-five miles per hour.

  Too easy.

  She shook her head and snapped back to reality. A depressed laugh escaped her.

  “If there’s a heaven, that wouldn’t help me get in,” she said. She felt the empty room. It was too big now. She was imprisoned by her riches. She knew what she had to do to get out of her funk.

  “When you’re depressed, clean out your closet,” her grandma once told her when she had been down about a boy.

  Keep moving. Be productive. But move in the right direction.

  She pushed the bottle of pills off her desk and into the trash.

  She hadn’t walked alone in over a decade. It was night in a bitter January that greeted Chicago every New Year. It was ten below with wind chill, and she was wearing a sweater, pants, and light shoes. She didn’t mind. It felt earned, a self-flagellation to absolve her past misdeeds. The cold cut into her, causing her to shiver and her hands to ache. It sobered her from her month long drugging and she felt her mortality.

  She walked briskly, her head tucked down, her arms across her chest. He lived four miles away. If she made it, she would plead for her life back. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have to.

  Sabot woke to a knock on his door. He flailed until he got his bearings and then he hopped out of bed. He glanced at the clock: 3:43 a.m. He pulled a compact pistol from a nightstand and went to the door.

  He didn’t look through the peephole. He knew from a grim memory that if a person wanted you dead, they didn’t need to get inside. Put the muzzle of the gun next to the peephole and wait for the light to go black. Boom.

  He positioned himself to the side of the door and opened it quickly. Cynthia stood in front of him, shaking from the cold, the snow melting into her hair and rolling down her cheeks. He dropped the gun and pulled her inside.

  “You’re freezing, what’s going on?” He pushed her toward the couch, grabbed a blanket and wrapped her in it. He quickly went to his bedroom and tore all the blankets off the bed. He came in and layered them on top.

  “I,” she started to say.

  “One second.” Sabot filled a kettle with water and put it on the electric range. He came back rubbing his hands together for warmth, she was that cold. She shivered violently. He sat next to her and warmed her with his body, running his arms up and down her back, trying to get the circulation going.

  “I . . . m sor-ry. I sho—ldn’t have co-me,” she said.

  “Shhh. It’s cool. Let’s get you warmed up and then I’ll yell at you,” Sabot said. She couldn’t help but smile.

  The tea helped. She sipped at it, letting it burn her mouth and tongue. Sabot leaned against a wall across from her.

  “I can’t do it anymore, Sabot,” she said. “The Tank Major killed more than thirty people, more that weren’t accounted for because they were collateral damage.”

  “Hostages,” Sabot said. She nodded.

  “Janis doesn’t even know. They did DNA testing afterwards.”

  “The terrorists deserved it, Cynthia. They murdered innocent people,” Sabot said.

  “I’m not saying they didn’t. They did. But saying it is different than seeing it.” She shook her head, remembering.

  “We have cameras mounted on the Tank Major. They send video and audio wirelessly to Command. You’d see a man raise his hands to block the Tank Major’s punch. It’d be almost funny if I could get the look of those people out of my head as his fist came down.”

  She took a sip of her tea.

  “I’ll quit tomorrow, Sabot, if that will get you back. You’re right, I thought the Mindlink and all the good it’s done overshadowed this stuff. But I’m like a doctor that cured someone’s cancer only to give them AIDS,” Cynthia said. “I’ll be remembered, I know that, it’s inevitable, but I want
to be remembered for good, for truly being good, not just brilliant.”

  “You’re not going to like what I’m going to say,” Sabot said. Without the light in his eyes, she would have thought he was rejecting her again, forever. She waited with one eyebrow raised. “You can’t leave.”

  She slapped her hand down on the couch. “Sabot! Quit being a moving target! What the hell do you want?” she said. But she felt good, she felt like they were back.

  “Evan—” Sabot began.

  “Is frightening,” she finished.

  “No shit. I’m a great judge of character. Remember that,” he said. “He has your technology. He can build these things until he runs out of metal.”

  “Yes.”

  “At this point, it exists with or without you. That ship has sailed. If you hadn’t given it to him this would be a different conversation, but it’s done. But right now, MindCorp supplies the implants and the software.”

  “Yes?” Cynthia said. Sabot was surprised she hadn’t gotten it yet. He didn’t know she had been stoned for a month.

  “You can control it,” Sabot explained. “Not completely, not in the open, but if things go awry. I don’t trust Lindo, I haven’t trusted anyone less in my life. But we need to be around him.”

  “We?” she said.

  “Yes, we,” Sabot said.

  “We’re the checks and balances,” Cynthia said slowly. The fog evaporated from her mind and she understood what Sabot had spoon fed her: no nation could oppose the U.S. while MindCorp was partnered with them. But MindCorp was more than an equal partner. And instead of being a sheep, it had to be a wolf.

  “How long have you been thinking about this?” Cynthia asked. She was impressed with Sabot’s insight.

  “When I opened the door and you were there,” he said. “I would love for us to sit on a beach for the rest of our lives, get too tan, too drunk and age poorly. But you’re going to be remembered until the end of civilization, Cynthia. The time is now. This is your legacy. It’s not about the invention or the power. It’s about vigilance.”

  He let that settle in. “If I’m wrong about Evan, great. We won’t have to do a thing. But we need to plan for the worst and now, while he needs you, is the time.”

  Sabot watched Cynthia as her amazing mind spun into high gear. She focused and the path of MindCorp, the U.S., and the world spun together in front of her like fabric from a loom. Each thread was a pathway and the consequence of each had to be known. There would be untold death if the U.S. went astray. She understood that. If she had to intervene, she would be committing treason and sentenced to death. She understood that too.

  The debate could no longer be about nations and borders, it had to be about people and the greater good. Lindo couldn’t be allowed to win. His interests were not the world’s. It was as simple as that. Cynthia understood that all Lindo saw were flames and himself floating above them. She had to make sure that remained only in his dreams.

  = = =

  The next day, Evan got a call from Kove.

  “Sabot’s back,” Kove said. “Cynthia says our services are no longer needed.”

  “Hmm,” Evan said. “Okay. Report to the Derik Building.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kove hung up.

  Sabot and Cynthia had made amends. Evan thought about it for a moment and then pushed it aside. He was testing a new technique. Before, he would connect in as Justin’s father and guide him, but he wasn’t in control. He wanted to feel that power instead of just standing next to it. He wanted to ride the lightning. But Justin was too aware.

  Evan acquired ten death row inmates who were now unconscious, shaved bald and strapped to Sleeper chairs around him. His hands were tacky from their blood. He had worked on them all night, installing contact patches into their skulls. The next step was to perform Forced Autism on them. And then he could test his hypothesis.

  He looked up from the last inmate and caught his reflection in the shine of his surgical tools. His face fragmented across them like a horror filled kaleidoscope. His smile bent around the tray, leaping from blade to blade and he thought what he was seeing was prophetic: it would work.

  The big idea was close. Unnecessary, premature right now, but this was the first step. Why be one when you could be ten? Or a hundred? Or a billion?

  Why just be one?

  He forgot about Sabot and Cynthia and what that could mean, and got lost in his own mind. It was the only place he cared for now.

  Chapter 15

  Raimey fought the darkness for four months before it finally won. He felt sorry for himself. He couldn’t turn over. He was tired of sitting in his own filth. The sponge baths and diaper changes eroded his ego. But watching his beautiful wife slowly break down was what took him.

  There was no way to avoid it. She was one of the strongest women Raimey had ever known, but in the six months after the bombing, she had aged a decade. Deep frown lines were visible even while she slept. Streaks of gray threaded through her once jet black hair. And purple moons outlined the base of her eyes.

  She was the breadwinner, mother, and wife. And that was all superseded by her nursing duties. He remembered the sex they had when he first came back, the way she had rode him. That passion lasted for a month before the toil of a hundred diaper changes, a spilled catheter ruining a rug, the neighbor’s relentless pity; when all of that dug at her will like a thousand pick axes, chop, chop, chop.

  General Boen had kept in touch but even though Raimey had grown desperate enough to beg, Boen had nothing for him.

  “In time, John. Just not right now. Is the government coming through?” Boen asked. They were but it wasn’t enough. Tiffany had cut hours to take care of him.

  For John, the world was in a constant eclipse. He would catch himself staring at the wall for lengths on end, not even bothering to turn on the TV. He could feel himself shit his pants, the crackle and pop of his fart and the warm pile spreading out inside his diaper. He would try to hold his pee, but if Tiffany was gone too long, he would sit in it, smell it.

  She had been getting sick a lot lately and they both knew it was from the stress.

  “Babe, you need a break from this,” Raimey said. Tiffany tried to ignore what he was saying. Vanessa had left the dinner table and it was just the two of them. Tiffany started cleaning up.

  “Hon! Please,” he said. She turned to him. He remembered when her eyes would bathe him with warmth, when the good times of their life were like embers, keeping the love aglow. She had doll eyes now. Not out of hate, but out of exhaustion. The marathon was longer than she had thought. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  She did. She rested her head in her hands. “I’m fine, John,” she said.

  “No, you’re not and we’re not,” he said. He swallowed. “I’m an anchor babe, and I’m dragging both of you down.”

  For a second, he thought she was going to slap him.

  “You. Are. Not. Don’t think that! I love you!” she said.

  “I love you too, but that has nothing to do with it. I’m wearing you out. I’m not saying let me drive out into the cold and don’t look for me, I’m just saying you and Vanessa need to take a break from this. Go somewhere without me. We can hire a nurse or something.”

  She didn’t want to say it was a good idea, but he was right. She nodded in quiet resignation. “I just need to catch up on sleep. I’ve had this cold. I should probably go to the doctor,” she said quietly. “We could go to Florida, maybe. That’s an easy train ride.”

  She put her hand out to him. “I don’t like leaving you. I feel like I’m abandoning you.” Her bottom lip quivered and she began to cry. “I’m just so tired.”

  John wished he could put an arm around her and bring her to his chest and massage her head while she cried it all out, but the days of simple support had passed. So many things he had taken for granted, and so many things he thought were their future, gone like ghosts.

  = = =

  She had bought the tickets, hired the nu
rse, and seen the doctor. Raimey and Tiffany fought over the length of time, but Raimey insisted two weeks. She finally agreed. Tiffany needed it, and she needed to sleep until noon a few days in a row and feel sand between her toes.

  The VA recommended the nurse. Nikki Johnson was a pleasant woman in her fifties. She was built out of different sized circles: round cheeks, round stomach, round calves and hands.

  Tiffany and Vanessa were packed up and their suitcases were at the front door. Raimey wheeled over to them.

  “I’ll walk you to the subway,” he said. Already he could see a change in Tiffany. Her head was up higher like the yoke of life had loosened.

  It was late January and Chicago winters sucked. John was wrapped in three thick blankets but his mouth had to be exposed to move the joystick. The cold made his teeth hurt.

  Vanessa suffered because of this too, he thought. He watched her pull her suitcase—pink and too small— inappropriate for a ten-year-old getting her dad’s height and her mom’s good looks. She has already outgrown childhood and I’m the catalyst. She no longer bounded along like she was skipping from one thing to the next. She moved with the thoughtlessness of an adult.

  They reached the subway station three blocks from their house. For a second, it felt like he was saying goodbye forever. Then Vanessa hugged him.

  “I love you, Dad. We’ll call.” She kissed him on the cheek.

  “I love you, too,” he said. She ran up the stairs with her bag.

  “Don’t go too far!” Tiffany called after her. She turned to John. “This will be good,” she said. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

  “Nikki seems nice. I can really let it go now,” he said. “Tacos, chili, sauerkraut, anything I want.”

  Tiffany laughed. “Yeah, yeah.”

  Their eyes locked, connecting their souls. We think we know our future, that our plans are just process, but tell that to God.