by Jason Brant
Smith shifted his gaze to me. "You were to be terminated because of an internal investigation my agency performed on you. Your name, address, and all other personal information had been collected and stored in our database. Those files were subsequently read and destroyed by our assailants. All other suspects we investigated have been murdered – you are the only remaining survivor."
Sammy gasped and reached for my hand. The warmth and tenderness of her touch comforted me, even in this insanity.
This made less sense by the second. When I joined the military after college, 9/11 had inspired me to help fight terrorists. Why would a covert anti-terrorism organization be investigating me? The only thing I’d worked on since being discharged was jaundice.
"Whoever you had doing your research must have been a typical overpaid government tool bag, because the only time I've ever even seen a terrorist was when I sighted them down my rifle. I have a purple heart for being wounded in Iraq! How could you suspect me of terrorism?" The accusations infuriated me.
"You misunderstand, Mr. Benson. You weren't suspected of being a terrorist. In fact, we are well beyond suspicion. We know, without question, that you are a telepath."
Chapter 7
Smith's eyes were locked on mine.
Somehow he knew the one thing I had never told anyone. That wasn't a piece of information you can just guess either. The drug they dosed me with still hadn't worn off enough for me to try and dig through his thoughts.
Sammy looked back and forth from Smith to me.
"Can you say that again? It sound liked you said 'telepath'," Sammy said.
The silence in the room was deafening.
“Telepath, as in mind reader? That's impossible.”
More silence.
Smith and I continued to stare at each other like dogs struggling for dominance.
“Am I being Punk'd?” Sammy asked as she looked around the room theatrically.
"Why would you think I'm a psychic? I've been locked away in my crappy apartment for years. Until this morning I'm pretty sure everyone in the building thought I was some kind of drug addict, blogger, or World of Warcraft player."
“We have software that scours the internet for keywords involving certain phenomena. Your former fiancée sent several electronic messages to her friends discussing your mental issues. She complained of you knowing certain secrets, and of your lacking emotions,” Smith said. "Her descriptions of you were picked up by our filters, which prompted a closer look by our agents."
It had been years since I’d seen her and she was still finding ways to screw up my life. One evening while I was laid up in Walter Reed, my fiancée, Elizabeth, had come to visit me. It was the first time I'd seen her since I'd been transferred back to the States. Still suffering from post-concussion syndrome, my cognitive abilities hadn't recovered yet. Though the echoes weren't debilitating yet, emotions from those around me were often overwhelming.
The moment she walked in I could feel her guilt washing over me. I tried to ignore it and just enjoy seeing her for the first time in more than six months. Her anxiety only worsened when she realized the extent of my injury. The visit became far too tense and uncomfortable so she didn't stay long. As she prepared to leave a thought bounced around inside my head. I knew that her remorse wasn't due to my trauma, but her adultery. I even knew his name and when their tryst had occurred, though I couldn't adequately explain to her how.
Eventually her denials turned to accusations. She attempted to place the blame for her infidelity on me – typical behavior from a person caught cheating. Fatigue settled in rapidly, as it often did during those first few months, so my memory of her leaving is hazy. What I do remember is that she left angry and ashamed. I haven't heard from her since. Anyone who could abandon someone in my condition didn't deserve my attention, so I never tried to contact her again.
"The subsequent investigation revealed your traumatic brain injury, PTSD, the voices, and your reclusiveness. We know everything you've done for the past five years. By looking at your credit card statements and internet history… "
"That's not even legal!" I don’t know why I bothered saying that. The Patriot Act let the government bend you over anytime they felt the desire.
"…we learned that you spent more than three years intoxicated. A crude but effective tool for dampening your abilities. Shortly after Ms. Moore moved in you started researching meditation, exercise and dietary measures to increase concentration. We know everything about you.”
He was right. After my encounter with Sammy in the hallway, I decided to change my life around. Fortunately, I didn't have as much trouble quitting the booze as I expected. Good genes I guess. The hard part started when I wasn't drunk anymore. My mind felt like a cave with a party in it, voices constantly bouncing around. For weeks they overpowered me.
During the day, when most of my neighbors were at work, I started focusing on one thought stream at a time. Eventually I could concentrate on that lone voice, controlling the flow of the others. I learned to view my mind as a muscle. By exercising it constantly, it grew more flexible and powerful.
I also found that physical conditioning helped me to control myself. That was when I started taking boxing lessons. The timing and rhythm of the sweet science integrated perfectly with the way I trained myself mentally. I took jiu-jitsu because it was the most exhausting thing I'd ever done, way beyond anything I did in the military. My body and mind felt stronger and more stable after every workout.
Less than two years later I'd gained back most of the weight I lost. While the voices were still there, they sounded like soft mumbles, as if the volume on a television had been turned way down. The background noise remained a constant frustration, but was now manageable.
Smith, somehow, knew all of this. There didn't seem to be much point in denying any of it.
"Do you know my shoe size too? So that's why you drugged me; you don't want me inside your head.”
“Correct. Opiates prohibit thought-transference.”
Sammy stared at me. “You can't expect me to believe this. Whatever they gave you is making you go along with this.” She looked at Nami. “You aren't buying this, are you?”
“Feels like we're on the Hogwarts Express, doesn't it? But apparently it's true,” Nami said. She gave Smith a dirty look. “What I didn't know was what happened to my predecessors.”
“Every one of you is nuts,” Sammy said as she walked over and sat down on the other bed. “I can't listen to anymore of this.”
She showed me a moment of compassion, and I turned my life around. I helped her out of a jam, and turned her world upside down. Irony sucks.
"I still don't understand why all the people in your files have been killed, why you were watching me, or why I'm even here."
"My agency used telepaths for covert intelligence purposes."
I couldn't help but notice his use of past tense.
“Telepaths as in plural? I had no idea there were others—”
“There were seven others, prior to the events of the past two days."
I thought I was the only one since the first echo pinged around in my mind. Hearing there were more was somehow comforting and disconcerting at the same time. Talking to one of them a few years ago would have been an enormous benefit, but knowing that this ability was being exploited by the government was a big concern.
“We investigated and tracked all potential instances of this phenomena. That's why we had an extensive file on you.”
"If you knew what I could do, why not try and recruit me?"
"We have no use for an alcoholic."
Ouch.
“Well, apparently you've found a use for me now or I wouldn't be here. What were you doing with these people?”
“Our primary mission was anti-terrorism. Telepaths were used to locate, influence, and terminate key personnel. They were trained for clandestine actions. Since the inception of our operation, actionable field intelligence has skyrocketed. We are
the reason the United States has made significant progress in the Middle East recently.”
The practical uses seemed limitless. How many plans could be thwarted if we knew when and where the enemy would attack? How many soldiers’ lives could be saved if we knew where I.E.D.s were planted? We could find supply lines, weapons caches, bank accounts. Entire terrorist cells could be eliminated. This was a game changer.
“If you had seven badass super soldiers at your disposal, how were you wiped out so quickly?” Nami asked.
Smith seemed annoyed at the question. “Six months ago we received intelligence that Iran had been operating a similar program. We've been trying to gather information, but anyone with knowledge of the program has been kept out of our reach."
"Damn."
"Three days ago we learned that one of their spies may have landed on U.S. soil. Within twenty-four hours all of our agents were dead. Inside of forty-eight hours everyone else involved in my operation joined them."
"How could that happen? You think one man killed everyone?" I asked.
"Before her death, one of our agents managed to send us a piece of correspondence. It identified one man, codenamed 'Murdock'.”
Of course, the guy trying to kill me had to have a scary name.
"If this Murdock guy took out your entire team, what the hell do you think I can do?"
He didn't bother answering. "Murdock allowed himself to be recorded at McArthur's press conference and at the Cyber Crimes Center. He's sending a message. Play the DC3 footage, Ms. Williams.”
Nami turned her laptop around so that it faced me.
The video showed what appeared to be a hippie babbling a nursery rhyme. Then the bodies began to fall. He seemed to revel in the carnage around him.
“That is disgusting!” Sammy said. She ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Leave me alone!”
“Now show Mr. Benson the McArthur video,” Smith said.
It started playing just before the senator shot himself. McArthur sang a disturbing variation of Humpty Dumpty. Pandemonium broke out amongst the press after his suicide – the camera man tried to hold his shot steady, but the stampeding reporters knocked him sideways. Nami paused the video in the middle of the unintentional pan. She zoomed in on a man standing motionless in the middle of the carnage, a broad smile on his face. He looked nothing like the hippie in the previous video.
“I don’t understand the two different psychos at two bizarre public suicides though. You think that's the same guy?”
“Those men were the same person – Murdock. He appears to be an expert at disguise."
“I’m so glad I was brought into this,” Nami said.
“I still don't get it. What is he doing to get them to kill themselves? How could he convince Senator McArthur to kill his family?”
"We've analyzed footage from all of the media, security, and red light cameras in the area. Murdock never strayed more than three hundred yards from any of his victims. Even those who jumped from the building were within that range."
"So?" I asked.
“Murdock appears to be the most powerful telepath we’ve ever encountered. He not only has the ability to read minds, he can also manipulate and control them.”
Chapter 8
“Holy shit balls,” Nami said.
“He’s the only man we have ever seen with this capability. Our telepaths could read thoughts at a limited range of around one hundred feet. It seems Murdock can direct someone’s actions at over three hundred,” Smith said. “The threat he poses to our national security can’t be overstated. If so inclined, he could potentially collapse our entire system.”
A psychopath with the ability to control the minds of our nation’s most powerful people was beyond frightening. He could start wars and launch nukes. Killing a senator hadn't even been a challenge.
“Again, what the hell do you expect me to do? You said it yourself, I've been a waste of space for years. Why is he even trying to kill me? I'm no threat to him."
“Whenever two individuals with extra sensory perception are in the same vicinity they can discern each other’s presence. Their minds form an involuntary bond that we still don't fully understand. After killing Senator McArthur, Murdock eliminated all of the other telepaths in the program. His talent for disguise, combined with no other living clairvoyants to help identify him, would make him impossible to locate. He sent those men to kill you as a means of invalidating any other resources at our disposal.”
And now I was a resource being fought over by a secretive government program and a murderous, rhyme spewing maniac. Fantastic. I felt like an insect under a magnifying glass on a sunny day.
“Let me guess, you want my help finding this Murdock guy?”
“Correct. To our knowledge, you are the last living telepath, outside of Murdock himself. This makes your assistance invaluable to us. If we can get you close enough to him, your mind will react to his presence and we can end this.”
“If he wants to kill me, why would I agree to go after him when I should haul ass in the other direction?”
“Murdock will not stop until you are dead.”
"Maybe I'll run really, really far then."
Smith considered me for several moments.
"You joined the armed forces after 9/11 because you wanted to make a difference. This is your chance. You're in position to provide a unique service to your country."
My disdain for the way the wars were handled had started almost as soon as I arrived in Iraq. I signed up to fight terrorism and free the Iraqi people. Instead, I was ordered to kick in people's doors and search their homes at gunpoint. Why? Because their neighbors turned them in for reward money offered to informants, regardless of the accuracy of their information. The last thing I did over there was free people.
By the time they shipped me out of there on a gurney, I hated everything they had me doing. The soldiers didn't run the war; the bureaucrats and the military-industrial complex called the shots. Every decision being made seemed more illogical than the last.
Despite everything, though, I always regretted not being able to make our country safer. Not being able to make a difference. The guilt over my survival and the deaths of two of my soldiers would haunt me forever. And Smith knew it.
I ran my hands through my short hair, trying to figure out what my options were. The drugs had started to wear off, but I still couldn't use my abilities. I really wanted to peek into Smith's mind.
"Assuming I could get close enough to find him, what's to stop him from making me step out in front of traffic?"
"We don't believe he'll be able to manipulate your mind," Smith said.
"You don't believe? That doesn't sound very reassuring."
"Telepaths are unable to access each other's thoughts. We're assuming the same limitations apply to Murdock's mind control."
This just kept getting better and better. They wanted me to dive headfirst into a shark tank, using hopes and dreams as floaties.
I looked over at Chuck, who hadn't moved during the entire conversation.
“What do you think, Chuck? Should I run towards danger?”
“Chuck?” he asked to my surprise.
“I didn’t realize they installed your speech software back at the factory.”
His expression didn’t change. I didn't have to read his mind to know he was thinking about how he could break me.
“Never mind,” I said. I looked back at Smith. "What about Sammy? If I agree to help you, what happens to her?"
"She'll be protected until the situation has been nullified. Her release would be too dangerous at this time."
They weren't giving me many options. I still made a show out of thinking about it.
“All I have to do is get close enough to detect him, then the cavalry comes in and takes care of business?”
Smith gave me a curt nod.
"Let's do it then. But I'm going to be r
eally pissed if he kills me."
Chapter 9
Sammy had been in the bathroom of this crummy hotel room for what seemed like an eternity.
Smith and his merry band of action star wannabes left an hour ago with the promise that they would need me soon. They knew that the drug they injected me with was wearing off, and Smith didn't want to be around when it did. Nami stayed behind to assist me in preparing for our upcoming 'mission', though it was far more likely that she was supposed to keep an eye on us.
Preparation didn't really appear to be a concern for her because she was playing Doom on her laptop.
"Isn't that game twenty years old?" I asked.
"Yeah, so is your face."
"Wow. That really hit me where it hurts."
I couldn't get over the fact that she looked all of twelve years old. She wasn't even approaching ninety pounds.
"How tall are you? It looks like you shop in the toddler section."
"Tall enough to kick your dumb ass."
Her foul mouth and diminutive size made for a hilarious combination. I could tell that working with her would be interesting.
Now that all of my faculties had returned, I decided to probe for some information. Images from her thoughts filled my mind, flashing by like the pages of a flip book. The feeling of it is hard to describe, but the effect is similar to copying information from one computer to the next. Within a few seconds I knew that she had told the truth about being new to the operation. Her knowledge of what was happening didn't differ from what had just been explained to me. She knew nothing about Smith.
That explains why the three stooges left her here. They knew she couldn't reveal anything they wanted kept secret.
"So, Nokia, you've been working for the NSA for two years as a tech analyst – how did you rate this crazy job?"
"Nokia? My name is Nami. And did you just mind rape me?"
"Sorry, Nancy. And yes, I did. I needed to make sure we were on the same team. Don't worry though, I only checked out your professional memories. All that weird stuff of you dressed like Japanese cartoon characters I left alone."
