by Tom Wheeler
“Yeah, well, not on my watch.”
“That’s likely because of your roots. I’m not sure I know of another Democrat, let alone a Republican, who worked to avoid foreclosure of her mom’s house while going to law school as you did.”
“I was actually in a master’s program for robotics when I had to bartend to save our house,” said Martinez, correcting Eva.
“Well, nobody’s perfect,” said Eva.
Jonah chuckled as he watched from his laptop, aware that Eva was perfect.
“It’s not well known,” Martinez conceded, smiling. “You said you know my voting record?”
“Well, I know the bills you have submitted and passed. The Climate Action Now Act, Equality Act, Paycheck Fairness Act, Support of Transgender Individuals in the Armed Forces, Condemnation of the Crumpler Administration for . . .”
“. . . just about everything. That’s enough. You’ve done your homework,” said Martinez.
“Oh,” Eva went on, “and when you get criticized, you don’t back down, not for political reasons or otherwise. You are here to transition an old party into a new one. Anyway, that’s why I am sitting in your office,” she said as Martinez uncrossed her arms and sat down. “Oh, and you’re gay.”
“Bi. Impressive. My associate looked into your referrals. I rarely do this as quickly as I am, but the debates are rapidly approaching. I think you can help me. You’re hired,” she said. Eva paused before reacting with elation.
“Oh my gosh! It’s a dream come true, thank you!” she said, standing and walking over to hug her. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t . . .”
“It’s okay. Hugging is permitted. Just don’t do it on the campaign trail; one of my competitors has been through hell for being nice but apparently insensitive.”
“I understand. When do I start?”
“I’ll leave that up to you, since you . . . But Monday works for me.”
“Monday it is. I had already prepared to move to the East Coast, so it’s not that much of a rush.”
“I’ll see you then,” said Martinez as Eva gathered herself and headed for the door, smiling—as was Jonah Soul.
78
jinazat Pierre
Sunday, October 13
Titusville, Florida
The day was eerily silent except for the sound of cars pulling into the parking lot of the Masjid Al Vierra Mosque in Titusville, Florida. I was standing by a palm tree in the front of the couple-acre area, out of sight of the attendees, watching a jet pass high above without a sound, leaving a white trail. A light breeze blew gently through the trees, making the temperature perfect, although this was far from a perfect day. The last thing I saw before closing my eyes was General Crane’s limo pulling into the parking lot. My mind was adrift with the reality that plagued life. I felt partially paralyzed—still stunned by the news. But I needed to support Dhilan, who was fighting for his life. This was his friend—a friend who had miraculously lived several days after being shot, despite initially having been pronounced dead, but who was now just that: dead. I was here for Dhilan.
I walked into the mosque at the last moment, finding the community gathered in the back corridor. The men entering were dressed in long-sleeved button-down shirts and grayish trousers. The women, more scarce than men, were wearing head scarves as well as ankle-length skirts, and long-sleeved shirts with high necks. Pictures of Pierre continued to flash on the screen in the front as one person wailed loudly, and tears streaked the faces of several who were apparently Pierre’s family.
“Allahu Akbar,” said the imam, or holy leader, at 3 p.m. He was dressed in a white robe and a white turban. His words sent shivers down my spine, since the last time I’d heard that line, bodies had exploded.
I inhaled deeply, noticing everyone facing east. I turned away as the congregation shouted back the Arabic phrase, or Takbīr: “Allahu Akbar.” The imam turned to someone, letting them know it was time to stop the images of Pierre. The screen cleared. For the next 10 minutes, the imam spoke like a professional, reminding everyone of Pierre’s faith and the goodness of Allah. He called each of the family members by name, using comforting words and reminding them all how much Pierre had loved them.
Three eulogies followed, by Pierre’s brother and two close friends. The last speaker frowned and then broke down as he approached Pierre’s mother in the front row. He knelt down and kissed her hand before placing it back on her lap and standing up, tears flowing freely down his face. He walked down the aisle and out the back door. I saw someone follow him out. After a 15-or-so-minute sermon, the imam ended with “Salamun alaikum, Pierre Monet, enter Paradise because of the good deeds that you have done.”
After the ceremony, four men who I was told were part of the family carried the body to the field next to the mosque. Many of the mourners followed, while another group scattered for the parking lot. I watched from a distance as they laid Pierre’s body on its side, facing Mecca, according to tradition, as everyone said in unison, “Bismil llah wa ala millati rasulil llah.”
“That means ‘In the name of Allah and in the faith of the Messenger of Allah,’ ” said Crane, who had approached me as I stared at the men adjusting the body. I didn’t respond, although I appreciated the translation, since I had no clue. I didn’t want to see anyone. I wasn’t ready. Maybe I never would be.
“I attended another Islamic funeral last month,” he said, pausing. “I heard the same line and asked. Listen, Mason, I realize this isn’t a good time, but I’d like to speak with you at NASA. Could you meet me tomorrow?”
“No.” My phone began to buzz. I didn’t answer. I closed my eyes.
“Tell me, General, what is so important that I can’t visit Dhilan in the hospital?” I asked. “They told me you won’t allow anyone in the room without clearance. The clearance you took from me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Yeah well, me, too. No,” I said, repeating my answer. “Have you caught the guy?”
“You know the police are handling his case, Mason.”
“What I know is, when the government wants something done, all barriers are broken. When they don’t, they defer to standard bureaucracy as if they never break boundaries.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Such is politics.”
“So Dhilan hasn’t died?”
“He should have,” said Crane, as the near-fatal accident my father had been in years ago flashed through my mind. The paramedic on the scene had told my mom he’d found my father dead. He swore an angel told him to recheck, and when he did, he found a pulse. My father lived. It was similar to what had happened with Pierre, except Pierre later died.
“Mason, it’s important. It’s about Dhilan.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, looking at Crane, a tinge of hope creeping over my distraught soul.
“Can you meet me at Dhilan’s lab in the morning?”
“For what?”
“Keeping Dhilan alive.”
“I don’t have clearance,” I said.
“You will,” he said as I studied his face. He looked as distraught as I felt.
“When?”
“In the lobby, 0700,” he said, and I took a deep breath.
“If it will help Dhilan, I will be there,” I said as the general turned and walked away.
I stood at the edge of the ocean, watching the sun turn the morning sky red, reminding me how small I was in the scheme of things, but unwilling to accept that thought as relevant. My sense of loss was devouring me, the world spinning because of the pain, suffering, and psychotic actions of the human race. I had been kidnapped, shot, humiliated, fired, and set up. Now people in my life were dying. Maybe I was next. Gravity might keep me from physically flying into space, but it wasn’t helping psychologically. I knew the Almighty One had a purpose for
my life, but right now I felt like I’d been dealt a bad hand from a random deck of cards in a terrible game of poker. I was thankful for Russ Keeney. I wasn’t sure what I would have done without someone like him to speak to about my feelings.
I also knew the Grand Book said a real devil was causing much of the madness. A devil I knew existed, a devil I had seen; but still, the Almighty One didn’t have to allow it. I used to laugh, smile, have fun—at least when I got drunk. Now I lived wondering what crap sandwich I would have to eat today. I turned and started running, recalling that I had been suicidal just a few years ago on the other side of my life, when I hadn’t had faith in Emmanuel.
After finishing my run, I grabbed the Grand Book as part of my morning reading. I read 1 Timothy 1:19:
“Cling to your faith and keep your conscience clear. For some people have deliberately violated their conscience; as a result, their faith has been shipwrecked.”
Then I headed to NASA.
79
Meeting Crane
Monday, October 14
6:45 a.m.
NASA
Cape Canaveral, Florida
“Hi, Joe. I’m here to meet General Crane,” I said to the security guard at NASA.
“You can head up to the lab. I’m sorry about Dhilan. He was a good man. He’s about the only one that spoke as kindly to me as you, Mason,” he said with a slight smile.
“Don’t give up hope,” I said, almost hypocritically. He nodded. I made my way to the elevator, up to Dhilan’s lab, which had also been mine just a few days ago. General Crane was sitting at Dhilan’s desk with his laptop open. He appeared to be reading.
“Hello, Mason. Thanks for coming,” said Crane, taking a deep breath as he closed his laptop. A Starbucks cup sitting on the desk.
I nodded.
“I need your help.”
“Funny. You just fired me,” I said. Crane looked away, as if expressing condolences on my situation in some weird way.
“I didn’t fire you,” he said. “According to Dhilan, you know more about these androids than anyone else, other than him. We’ve created a Congressional Oversight Committee, so what I’m about to tell you will need to be approved by the committee, but I need you. Your country needs you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Dhilan had been working on transforming Nero’s identity for a counterespionage operation called ‘Gemini Twin.’ We considered scrapping it because of the shooting, but his most recent report indicated you could replace him.”
“I don’t work for NASA,” I said, my eyes boring into Crane’s.
“He made it clear that if you had the schematics, you could step in without much assistance.”
I inhaled deeply, then exhaled.
“I don’t understand. Did he know he was going to be shot?”
“You’re the prophet,” he said, pausing. “Didn’t you have a dream?”
“How’d you know . . . ?”
“He told me, although he said he didn’t believe you. To tell you the truth, I have had difficulty believing your premonitions, too, although I can’t explain how you know what you do. That said, I am listening to you, son. As for Dhilan, he was always one step ahead. I think he wrote things down just in case.”
Crane paused. I sat down.
“He asked me to get a CT scan of the person whose identity we want Nero to assume. I should have it shortly.”
“I can program him with a new identity. You’ve lost me, since that will take minutes.”
“Forgive me, I haven’t been clear. I need you to change the physical appearance of Nero to that of a woman—a woman currently alive and breathing.”
I stared at the general, considering his request and the schematics.
“Is that even possible?”
“According to Dhilan, yes. He said he’d have to eliminate Nero’s weaponry. Apparently he has already created a model of the face we need.”
I nodded, my mind racing. “Okay. When will I have clearance?”
“Today.”
“So you are offering me my job back because you need me?” I asked, looking the general in the eye.
“Temporarily, yes. I’ll make it worth your while,” he said as I took another deep breath, my own opinion about power verified once again. They made exceptions when they were in a bind; otherwise, I was chopped meat.
“I thought you said this was about Dhilan.”
“The bullet penetrated Dhilan’s brain. Even if he lives, he won’t be the same person.”
“You didn’t need to bring me here to tell me that,” I said. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach, except for the minor consolation that the general had just referred to me as “son,” which, in my mind, signified compassion and a form of intimacy I hadn’t experienced with the military leader.
“We’ve done something nobody is aware of besides the president, Leon Tuss, the NASA surgeon, myself, and now you.”
“What else is new?” I asked rhetorically.
“We are going to use Neural-Eclosion’s technology to reconstruct his brain.”
“Neural eclosion has nothing to do with reconstructing a brain,” I said matter-of-factly.
“We are rebuilding Dhilan’s brain using components found in Nero and Jerome that have been developed by Neural-Eclosion, Leon Tuss’s company.”
“Who is?”
“Dr. Stephen Mescher, the NASA surgeon.”
“How is that possible? Besides its never having been done,” I said skeptically.
“Mescher works in Area 51. I can’t tell you what they’re working on, but—”
“I thought only eight people knew about these androids?” I interrupted.
“Dhilan never revealed what he was working on with Mescher or Tuss, but they both worked with him on the microchip. They developed a . . . hold on,” he said, looking at his phone, “a virtual reality schematic of the brain.”
“Go on.”
“Mescher has installed a chip onto a neuron in a model brain, and, according to Dhilan, it worked.”
“When?”
“Recently. I can’t tell you . . .”
“Sounds like surgical wizardry to me,” I said. “You want to make Dhilan a cyborg? Is that what this is all about?” I asked, looking at General Crane with narrowed eyes.
“Yes.”
80
Cyborg Reality
I was trying to think, make sense of this conversation, but my mind felt like it was on fire from the intensity of the events.
“So Nero created a model of the brain, and Mescher installed a chip?”
“Yes.”
My mouth fell open. “I just read that Harvard is years out. Even Capucine said this was years away. Nor did Dhilan mention it to me.”
“Everyone has secrets, Mason. None of us knew just how far along this was, and none of them wanted to talk about it because it hadn’t been proven. It was a miracle I found out about it, even with top secret clearance.”
“So Mescher can install neuromorphic microchips?” I asked, disregarding the comment about secrets, since all mine appeared to end up on the news.
“According to Dr. Mescher, yes. He even believes he can take Jerome’s central processing unit and attach it to Dhilan’s brain.”
I shook my head, wondering if I wasn’t somehow a character in a sci-fi movie.
“He may be able to do that?”
“It’s never been done. But otherwise, Dhilan will die,” said Crane, making it clear that, while this was risky, Dhilan was the perfect candidate.
“You’re saying, albeit implicitly, that if this works, he will have the intelligence of Jerome, along with his own current emotions, but he may not remember the past?”
“Yes, best case.”
“Will he even know who he is?�
��
“The only memories we are certain he will have are the ones taken from a recent test.”
“Test?”
“Just before Dhilan was shot, he reverse-engineered the Telepathic Auditor device to read the mind of the beholder, which was Dhilan, since he did the test on himself. We don’t know what it found.”
“A mind dump?” I asked.
“Listen, Mason. There is more to this, but you need to let this sink in before I fill you in completely. The point is, I need your help.”
I took a deep breath.
“We all know you’ve been through a lot, Mason.”
“The only good news is I’m not in jail.”
“Except that should be more motivation, since someone wants to keep you out of the game, and they wouldn’t want that if you weren’t important.”
“Yeah, the devil.”
“Perhaps. But unless you are giving up, you need to fight. The loss of Dhilan represents a significant blow to NASA and, quite frankly, to the security of the United States. And the politics are sensitive. Given current circumstances, if I ask for temporary clearance, you will get it. Then we see how you do. You may not want to continue, or we may not be able to continue with you. Like I said, politics.”
“Where’s the CT scan?”
“Dhilan was supposed to receive it by noon.”
I pursed my lips, staring straight ahead.
“Could I have access to Dhilan’s house?”
“For what?”
“This is hard enough for me to do, sir, but someone’s got to look through his stuff, just in case. The only person that probably would have done this is Pierre, and he’s dead,” I said.
The general was silent for a moment.
“I was with Dhilan at his house once,” Crane said, “and he went around back to retrieve a key. He didn’t tell me where it was, but he was headed for a quote from the Qur’an that sits in his backyard. I’d check there. His computer password is JVJ24601,” he said, writing it down.
“Thanks.”
“Capucine will be here Wednesday, right?” asked Crane.
