The Pretender - A Marcie Noel Novel.

The Pretender - Chapter 9

2012-05-24T05:28:00.001-07:00

Sunday, July 18, 2083. 11:30 am

Marcie and Robbie sat at the dining table by a large picture window displaying a truly spectacular view of the valley beyond. The sun was bright in a hazy, blue summer sky clear of PAs. Robbie was watching a sailboat in the lake in the distance, but Marcie wasn’t looking. She’d hit gold: a satellite uplink and a relatively fast portable computer. She’d signed on in minutes and started a new webmail account, preparing to work.

The first thing she did was send a rather cryptic email to Jeff that she hoped he would recognize as her. He responded almost immediately. He said he was sorry she’d come to no good and could she keep it up please, because, paradoxically, her notoriety was turning out to be good for business. And by the way, she looked cute in that little blue suit. What? The prison outfit? When did they take a picture of me in this? She decided to take the email for what it meant: All was well; they didn’t need her.

Then, she tried to find out what had happened to Origin. She couldn’t get the place out of her head. The faces and personalities of the place had started to haunt her. Their deaths were ignominious; their fates unnecessary. Had they decided to kill everyone? Were they all gone? She did a manual search of the news sites. What could I keyword search for? Genocide? There were reports of weapons testing in Arizona but, as she expected, no mention of the complex they were bombing. Just a few pieces critical of the government for snarling traffic in the Midwest and a few editorials complaining about the cost of the military.

“Even if Origin is destroyed, there must be something left of the fortunatus who were Outside. Maybe we could connect with them, Robbie.”

“Maybe, sugar.”

Marcie started a set of searches for various keywords: Origin, Stellan, fortunatus. Nothing. She scanned various fringe sites and streams for any hints or clues. Nothing. She shrugged and started a system-wide search for ‘swasti3.gif’, the original search she’d used to locate the fortunatus in the first place. She sat back to wait. After a while, Robbie called out that the bathroom was free and Marcie startled. She hadn’t noticed him leave. She checked the vidscreen again but nothing. She went for a shower. The bathroom was well appointed, nothing rustic about the plumbing. Marcie came out of the shower and found out that clothes had been laid out for her to wear. Simple stuff: a white t-shirt and jeans. But, oh, fresh socks. It’s the little things.

Afterward, she checked back and the system was still waiting for a hit. She frowned and went to the kitchen. She assumed the computer systems inside Origin were destroyed but she had hoped she would find some fortunatus computers Outside. She went to the kitchen and made some more coffee, scrambled some powdered eggs, and toasted some frozen bread. She served Pauline and Robbie in the livingroom and, then, brought her meal back to the table so she could watch the laptop’s vidscreens while she ate. Still nothing. She sighed.

“Wanna play cards, sugar?” Robbie came up to the table. “Pauline won’t play with me anymore.”

“I think he cheats,” said Pauline from the couch.

“Sore loser,” said Robbie as he sat down.

“I’m not getting anywhere, here, Robbie. What if I come up empty?”

“Just wait. We’ll deal with it if you find nothing, but I think you just need to be patient. Canasta?” He raised a pack of playing cards and smiled.

“Sure.” She put the computer aside, took the cards, and shuffled and dealt them while Robbie got some coffee.

They played canasta for some time. Robbie was good. She stopped the game with the excuse that she needed to check the computer, not really expecting to find anything, and darn it if there wasn’t a hit, one lone file with that tag in the whole Internet, or at least as much of the internet she’d been able to search. She smiled and went to pour herself another cup of coffee.

“Sorry, Robbie. I’m back to work.”

“We could finish the game.”

“Yeah, but I don’t need to lose three in a row.”

“So,” he said as she disappeared into the kitchen, “that’s one forfeit to me, then.”

“Fine,” she called.

She came back, stuck her tongue out at him, and then sat down at the laptop. The vidscreen was blinking its one hit. Marcie copied and, then, entered the address of its location in her browser window. Blocked. No access. Give me a break. She started the long process of inventing the personalities she would use to break into the remote computer. She got to work and it cracked like an egg. That was too easy – is this a trap?   She went in anyway; ready to break the link at any time. She tried to open the page she’d been looking for and found it encrypted. She cracked the file in seconds, opened it, and sucked in her breath. A message from Stellan dated the seventeenth. She didn’t think about it. She pressed ‘copy all’, and then pasted the text into a notepad. She dropped the file, cleared the personality that had pulled the file, and killed the link, all in mere seconds. She would leave the computer offline until tomorrow. Most reverse tracers neither moved fast enough to track that quickly, nor kept looking past twenty-four hours.

Then she turned to the message:

July 17, 2083

To: Our Family Outside

Urgent Help Requested.

Origin is under attack. I believe that the government will stop at nothing to destroy the complex and I, and other like-minded citizens, have decided to leave immediately. Sadly, we number only a couple thousand people. Most of the population believe they are not in danger and have chosen to stay behind and wait to be incarcerated. But, at time of writing, bombs are being dropped overhead. I fear the worst.

We neither know our route nor how long it will take us to climb out of here and we have no idea how long our supplies will last. We may need assistance.

If you read this within a few days, please pass this message on to other family members.

If you can help, please do.

John Stellan

Marcie sighed. I hate climbing. She blinked a bit at the screen and swallowed some more coffee. She turned to Robbie who was playing solitaire.

“Okay, I’ve found a note from Stellan.”

“So?”

“Well, there’s no official record of the damage done to Origin, which tells me it’s been destroyed and the government is happy to let the dead take their damning secrets to the grave.” Robbie shook his head. “But, about two thousand of our people left the complex before the bombs broke through and are trying to climb their way out. There must be a complex path of caverns leading out. Assuming the best, they got away but they’ll probably need some help. Read.” Robbie looked intently at the vidscreen and read the message.

He looked bemused. “What can we do?”

“There’s the question.” Marcie raised her eyebrows and sat back. “We need resources.

“Did you check to see if we have any money?”

“No, and I won’t be able until tomorrow because there might be a tracer out there looking for this.” She gestured toward the laptop. They were silent for a moment. “Robbie, how many of us do you think there are, in total? How many, other than the ones at Origin?”

“Oh, sugar, easily thousands.”

“Some of us fairly successful, too, I expect. So what if I break the fortunatus story to the media? Wouldn’t those people be motivated to help?”

“Assuming they know about their heritage, yeah, but this sounds like a sure-fire way of getting caught.”

“Well, not sure-fire.”

Robbie thought for a moment and then shook his head. “I really don’t want to stick my head up. We could be more effective working underground. What can we do if we’re caught?”

“But Robbie, it’s worth a try. We’ve been hiding all these years and, now, the secret is literally killing us. I understand why it was important to keep quiet before, but now….? We’re lab rats. We’re gun fodder. We’re running scared.” She looked at his face. He was still conflicted.

“It’s too risky.”

“Tell me this, though. Just respond when I ask you the question: Is it time to tell the world?”

“Yes.” Robbie was nodding and feeling certain. He said. “Ask Pauline.”

“Mum!”

“Yes.” Pauline was in the livingroom reading.

“Yes or no, Mum. Should we let the world know about fortunatus?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Marcie, looking back at Robbie. “Somebody has to do it. May as well be us. Doesn’t matter who hears about it as long as the fortunatus do, but if the general public does believe us, we might clear up our reps a bit. Who can tell?”

Sunday, July 18, 2083. 1:15 p.m.

“Dr. Ryan? Sir?”

Ryan crinkled his nose at the odour of the smelling salts.

“He’s coming around.” Sounds like Welsh. Oh my head.

“Lucky for him. That was some blow he took. Dr. Ryan?”

“Whe...where?” Ryan’s head was pounding. He opened his eyes and saw a young doctor staring at him intently with tired eyes. He was on a hard table in a curtained area lined with medical equipment. Emergency?

“You’re in North York Gen emerg, Dr. Ryan. I’m Dr. Gulab. You’ve sustained significant trauma to the side of your head and been in a coma for some time. We’re planning to admit you for twenty-four hours observation as a precaution. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Do you want some painkillers?”

“What happened?”

“They hijacked your plane, Dr. Ryan.” Ryan turned toward the voice and there, indeed, was Welsh. “And they sent the plane on a ride. It took us a few hours to locate it and then a few hours to rescue you. We think you’ve been out for most of a day.” Not lambs, indeed.

Dr. Gulab was looking annoyed. “Mr. Welsh, just give me a minute. Dr. Ryan, can you follow this light with your eyes?” Ryan dutifully tracked the penlight until Gulab stood back. “All right, Dr. Ryan. Just rest here,” he said as he made a note on a patient pad, an electronic patient record. “We’ll be taking you upstairs as soon as your room is ready. It’s being prepared as we speak.” Gulab hung the patient pad on a hook at the end of the bed. “We’ll just keep you overnight.”

“No. You say I’ve been out for most of a day already?”

“Yes, sir, about twelve hours.”

“Now that I’m awake, it’s unlikely I’ll slip back into another coma, Dr. Gulab. The crisis is past.”

“Not really. As you know, we’ll need to watch you for another twenty-four hours for seizures or other complications. That was some blow.”

“These complications are rare, Dr. Gulab. And it’s healing well, isn’t it?”

The young doctor grudgingly nodded. “Remarkably well actually.”

“Yes, I’ve always been a good healer. Doctor? Could you get me those painkillers now? I’m not coping with the headache.”

“Sure. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks.” Once he was out of earshot, Ryan turned to Welsh. “Did they do blood work already?”

Welsh nodded and opened his jacket to reveal a lab specimen envelope hidden in the chest pocket. “I managed to grab it. I don’t know how long it’ll take them to notice it’s missing.”

“Did the patient pad sync with the hospital system?”

“I don’t know.”

“Pass it over.” Welsh unhooked the patient pad and handed it to Ryan, who skimmed through the files quickly. There were pictures from the scene, stats on his condition, read-outs from monitoring equipment, and notes from the paramedics. Ryan checked for the telltale hospital icon that shows up after a sync of information. Nothing. He raised his eyebrows. “This system needs upgrading. It should have synced the moment we got here. Haven’t they got wireless?”

“Sure, but that pad is from a different district entirely. We flew you fast for a half hour to get you here. That one might not have the right password for this hospital system. Might need a manual download.”

“Lucky. It hasn’t been done yet. Let’s take this with us, too.” He handed it back to Welsh who slipped it into the other chest pocket of his jacket. “I have to get out of here.”

“Can you stand?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, I brought you some fresh clothes.” Welsh indicated a small suitcase resting on a chair. “There’s a mass of reporters out there, by the way.”

“What are the news streams saying?”

“Your office spun it really well. Let’s get you to the PA and you can see for yourself.”

Ryan stood slowly and started to dress. Dr. Gulab returned. As soon as he saw Ryan was standing, he looked alarmed.

“Dr. Ryan, I can’t stress more strongly that you to stay here for observation.”

Ryan took the small paper cup with two pills. “No, Doctor, I need to go. This is a critical time for my campaign.” He downed the pills.

“It’s also critical for your health, Doctor.”

And your notoriety, Doctor, hmmm?   “I know what I’m doing, Doctor.”

“Of course, it’s within your rights to refuse treatment. I just wouldn’t recommend it. At least wait for the trauma PET series to be done. We can see the full extent of the injury and make an informed decision.”

“I can’t.” Ryan was dressed and ready to go. Ryan turned to Welsh without another word. “I think we’ll avoid the press, for now, Mr. Welsh.”

“They’re swarming the ground emerg exit but we can avoid them by taking the back stairs, going up a couple of floors, and then grabbing the elevator to the roof. That’s how I’ve been coming and going. We’ve got men keeping the roof clear, but someone might get an aerial shot of you.”

“That’s fine.”

Ryan smirked a little. So now I’m the hunted, am I Ms. Noel? I made a mistake with you two. Of course there were members of a species who weren’t always going to exhibit the standard behavioural traits. Of course some wouldn’t cower in the face of superior authority. Very few, but some, would rebel.

They walked through the emergency department past coughing children and moaning old men and came, finally, to a fire door that led to a staircase. They mounted the stairs slowly, a nod to Ryan’s condition. The pain was still leaching his concentration, attacking his vision, but already the pills were working. The throbbing was starting to ease. They got up to the second floor unmolested and took the elevator to the roof. As they walked, Welsh explained what had happened.

“…and luckily, no one was killed, although I think your chef was ready to have a coronary. Anyway, the program was rigged to wipe as soon as the plane touched down but, because we got in while it was flying, we were able to save the flight plan. We can track them.”

“What do you mean, you got on while the plane was flying?”

“The hatch was left open. They must have jumped out with ‘chutes. A security team dropped in from an airforce plane along with a pilot and a medical team. It was quite dramatic. It’s all over the news.”

“Do we know where they got out?”

“Not yet, but we’re working backwards through the flight program. We should have them by morning or, at least, have a good idea by morning.”

“You’re confident.”

“I’ve been chasing rabbits like these for a long time, sir. They’ll hole up; that’s what they always do. Find some cover, somewhere to hide. And, then, when they feel safe, they relax, and I find them.” The elevator opened on the roof. They walked through the small but busy emergency and triage. A sign by the front desk noted that this roof Emergency Room would be expanded and half of the street level facility closed in the next year.

“But these are not average fortunatus, David. We can’t easily predict their behaviour.”

“Even so, I bet you they’re hiding out somewhere right now. By the way, we have the military looking for them along with countrywide bulletins to civilian forces.” Ryan looked out to see two military planes flanking his aircraft on the pad and a half a dozen soldiers patrolling the roof. Media PAs were buzzing around above the hospital. Ryan schooled his expression. He needed to appear in control. Reporters were recording this moment.

“What spin did we give the press?”

“Oh, that you were the target all along, including the first hit on Eastdown. They’re lapping it up. They’re calling for blood. And since you and the crew were attacked, Noel and Grant are going to be charged with attempted murder, as well as hijacking and kidnapping. Oh, and somebody has a sense of humour.”

“What do you mean?”

“Their flight plan sent the plane all over North America only to land in your own back yard.”

“Very funny.”

A young colonel came up to Ryan and saluted. “Colonel Brant, sir.”

“Brant. How close are we to catching the people that did this?”

“We have some leads, sir. But the search area is extremely large.”

“Yes. Most of North America, I know, Colonel Brant. I just went on the trip, didn’t I?”

“Yes sir.”

Welsh spoke. “The investigation is continuing in your plane, sir. One of these military vehicles will take you home.”

“Fine.”

Welsh gestured to Brant to show them the way. The Colonel led them to one of the military PAs and Ryan and Welsh climbed into the back. As they sat down, Welsh tried to talk to him but Ryan held up his hand and frowned.

“Not, now, John. Do me a favour and clear that patient pad.” Welsh dutifully pulled out the pad and started working on it.

Ryan reached for the computer console and logged in. He spent the next ten minutes surfing to the major news sites to see what the world was saying about him. The Canadian streams were running the story as a top or near top story, and he was mentioned in news services around the world. This won’t hurt my notoriety. Only one site, a gossip rag from California, made light of his situation. He wasn’t, as he feared, a laughingstock.

Many sites ran concurrent articles about the foibles of the security systems of most planes, detailing just how easy it is to commandeer vehicles that were designed to be controlled, at least in part, by an outside and computerized source. This incident sparked a debate about the right of a person to fly his own plane. Many folks were feeling that the safety guaranteed by flights being controlled externally wasn’t worth the loss of personal liberty and the inability for an average citizen to defend him or herself from computer tampering. The debate was lively.

Ryan smiled. Not one site mentioned anything about what he was really doing. Not one post connected him to the blast testing being performed by the US Military in a remote location in Arizona. Every paper was running pictures of Noel and Grant, naming them as terrorists, armed and dangerous, and no one was asking how they got on his plane in the first place. And, as icing on the cake, the US and Canadian governments were both offering large rewards for any information that would lead to their arrest.

He had containment. Now all he had to do was wait. Welsh would find them. He shut down the feed as the plane landed on the personal pad behind his house. He left the plane without a word. Welsh followed, right on his heels.

“I need to schedule some press conferences.” I can capitalize on this.

“Yes, sir, uh, wait. There’s one more thing, sir.”

The tone in Welsh’s voice stopped Ryan. He looked back. “What is it?”

“The government came here while you were in the air, sir.”

“Oh?”

“They came and took the two prisoners.”

“Helen? They took Helen?”

“I protested, sir. I told them that Helen is an important subject but their documentation was correct and, well, they brought a small army with them. I told them Helen was critical to your research.”

Ryan felt stunned. How could they do this to me? “They know that, David. They already know that.”

Sunday, July 18, 2083. 1:30 p.m.

“Okay, do you want the good news or the bad news?”

Marcie pursed her lips. “Hmmmmm. Good news, I think.”

“I found an emergency PA in the garage.”

Pauline’s face brightened. “You mean we won’t have to walk?”

“No.”

Marcie shrugged. “Sounds all good to me. What’s the bad news?”

“Well, it might not carry all of us.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Yeah, that’s not all of it.”

“There’s more?”

“The tank is only half full.”

“How far can we get?”

“Only about two hundred kilometres.” Robbie shrugged his shoulders.

Marcie sighed. “That won’t get us anywhere.”

“Wait, there’s more. I think we should go north.”

“North?” Pauline looked scandalized. “There is nothing north of here.”

“Why, Robbie?”

“We should go to that base where they sent those families a few days ago. They won’t look for us in a group of Mennonites.”

“It’s too far. We’d never make it.” Marcie was studying the map. “Wait a minute. Kitchie Lake. Why do I know that name?”

“Never heard of it.”

“I know. I know. Will!”

“What?”

“Will is on vacation at Kitchie Lake.”

Robbie raised his eyebrows. “Will is on vacation?”

“Funny. That’s what I said when he told me.”

“We could just make it.”

“Yes we could.”

“Who is Will, dear?”

“My lawyer, Mum.” She looked at Robbie, hopefully. “He has to help us, right? He’s my lawyer.”

“Think about it, sugar. He might do more.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t his last name ‘Poole’?”

An hour later, Marcie stared at the computer screen, re-reading her press release. Robbie came into the dining room.

Marcie pursed her lips and then spoke. “Stellan won’t thank us. I don’t know if this is our secret to give away.”

“Well, ask yourself one question, sugar: If it helps get these people out safely, would he really complain? That’s what’s at stake here.”

Nodding slowly, Marcie pressed ‘Send’.

The nets might pick up the story quickly. Then again, the story would read as farfetched and might be dismissed as crackpot ramblings. Marcie hoped that out of all the reporters in the world, one might be intrigued enough to investigate. If so, and if she or he found anything, they were home free. If not, Robbie and she were still terrorists, the people trapped below would likely die there, and the fortunatus would continue to be victimized by Ryan and people like him for years to come.

Either way, Marcie was sure the nets were being monitored for any information emerging on the fortunatus and, once the government found this post, they would certainly take it seriously. They could analyse the logs and trace it back to this area. It was time to leave.

“Okay, it’s away.”

“Is that it then?” Pauline called from the kitchen where she was preparing a food pack for them.

“Yes, Mum. Let’s go.”

Pauline came out of the kitchen, shouldering a backpack, as Robbie and Marcie picked up their own packs. Just in case the emergency PA didn’t make it, they had ransacked the cabin for food and camping equipment. They left through the front door, locking the place behind them. The afternoon was clear and bright.

The two women followed Robbie to a large shed behind the house. Robbie had rolled out the Emergency two-man PA onto a driveway. It was a very small biplane with an engine that would fit in the glove compartment of Marcie’s PA.

“That engine’s really small,” said Marcie.

“About right for a sewing machine.” Pauline looked dubious.

Robbie was nodding. “I think we have too much weight.”

“Well, we won’t know until we try,” said Pauline as she clamboured in.

The three climbed in and Pauline and Marcie tried to get comfortable while Robbie fired up the PA. Marcie and Pauline were sharing a seat and Marcie was holding one of the packs on her lap. The other two packs stowed behind the seats. The PA started without complaint and Robbie drove it clear of the shed, but when they went to take off the sorry thing complained loudly and got nowhere. Robbie shook his head.

“Too much weight.”

“Dump the packs,” suggested Marcie. “Wait, that’ll leave us with no food. Should we try with one?”

“I think we’ll be lucky if we get all three of us in the air, sugar.”

“We aren’t leaving anyone behind. I’d rather walk. Let’s put the packs back in the cabin.”

Robbie taxied back to the cabin and cut the engine. Marcie hopped out, ran down to the gatehouse to retrieve the keycard and, then, Robbie and she carried the packs into the house leaving them on the kitchen table. She and Robbie walked back out of the cabin immediately, locking the door behind them. She returned the keycard to the gatehouse and ran back to the PA where Robbie had already fired up the engine.

“Let’s give it another try, ladies.”

“Sure.”

She climbed back in. This time the engine whined some, but eventually the tiny PA took off, only just clearing the trees.

“We might only get about a hundred kilometres in this thing,” complained Marcie.

“They’re not designed for much more, dear,” said Pauline.

“And I’d rather fly than walk, sugar.”

Robbie kept the altitude low, just over the treetops, to avoid being picked up by Control. Marcie popped the nav screen. She searched up Kitchie Lake and entered its co-ordinates so she could see the flight plan. A good tenth of the distance was shown in red, meaning that they didn’t have enough fuel for that portion of the flight.

“We’re not going to make it, Robbie.”

“Hang on, sugar. Biplanes can go really slow and conserve fuel. Let me give it a try and then, let’s re-calculate.”

Robbie adjusted the plane’s speed to minimum cruising. Marcie felt like she could have run faster. She waited a moment to let the system register the change in fuel consumption and then she ran the calculation again. This time only a tiny portion of red showed at the end of the trip.

“Okay, just about five clicks short. We can walk that.”

“You never know, sugar. If we’re lucky, we could run on fumes for a while.”

Forty-five minutes later, the little PA started beeping. They had almost made it to Kitchie Lake.

“Not bad, Robbie. I think I can see the lake beyond those pines.”

“Hang on, sugar. We’re not done yet. How far to go?”

She checked the computer screen. “Only three kilometres, really. The autonav is reporting three structures around this lake, a couple of small sheds and one larger building. If I know Will, he’ll have the biggest cottage within a hundred clicks.”

Robbie laughed. Marcie turned the nav screen his way and pointed out the structure. Robbie adjusted his course.

“And how do you like that?” Marcie smiled. “It’s on this side of the lake.”

“We might make it then.”

“Well, thank heaven for small favours.” Pauline sounded relieved and Marcie began to wonder just how much of a strain this trip was for her mother.

A few minutes later, the beeping from the dashboard became a long uninterrupted tone and the engine began to sputter.

“That’s it, folks. We have to set it down.” Robbie looked grim. They were flying over some dense forest that had grown up in the mere inches of topsoil in this part of Ontario. Since bedrock wasn’t too far below the surface, the landing could be bumpy. He scanned the ground intently. “There!”

Marcie followed his gaze and saw, just to the east of them, a small clearing in a thick stand of pine. The lake was beyond the next stand of trees and they were close to the cottage – Marcie could see a satellite dish and solar panels poking above the trees. The vehicle spluttered some more and lost some altitude. They scraped the tops of trees as they came into the clearing.

“Hold on!”

Robbie executed a reverse turn that effectively stalled the vehicle over the clearing. It dropped like a stone, but Marcie was sure her stomach hit the ground first. The PA landed hard, but the soil and the bed of pines needles was soft and took a lot of the impact of the fall. They were rattled, but okay. The PA, however, was ruined. The fuselage was cracked and one wing broken off completely.

Marcie sighed. “Well, if he’s not here, we’re in trouble because we’re definitely walking. And now we’re two hundred clicks farther away from Toronto”

“Oh, great.” Pauline did not sound too happy.

Robbie snorted and Marcie opened the door of the PA. She climbed out slowly with her mother right behind her. They walked around the vehicle to the driver’s side and stopped abruptly. Robbie was standing with his hands in the air. He hadn’t even closed his door.

About twenty-five feet away, a man stood pointing a rifle at all three of them.

“You can run if you want to,” said the man with the rifle, never taking his eyes from Robbie. His voice flowed out with a lazy, Southern drawl. “But I’m pretty good with this thing. You wouldn’t get far.”

He was wearing an old lumberjacket, a red plaid shirt, a cap laden with fishing hooks and lures, and some beat up boots. The gun looked new enough, though. Marcie almost didn’t recognize him. What did you do with all that expensive Tilley gear?

“Will. It’s me.” The man straightened and dropped his gun.

“Yeah, I know.” The accent was gone. “But I always wanted to say something like that.” Will started to laugh.

“Very funny, Will.”

They walked over to meet him. He extended his hand immediately to Pauline.

“Mrs. Noel, your picture doesn’t do you justice.”

“Blue is not my colour, Mr. Poole. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Pauline almost fluttered her eyelashes. Mum, I’ve never said a word about Will.

Will put his hands on his hips and sighed. “You people sure know how to get yourself in trouble. I suppose I should be calling the Mounties on you, huh? You’ve got to be the most wanted trio in memory.”

“Well, if you’re going to do anything, you should always go whole hog, I always say.” Pauline smiled.

“Just so, ma’am. Just so.”

“We need a good lawyer, Mr. Poole.”

“You’ve come to the right place, Mrs. Noel, but I think we’d best get inside. The Mounties aren’t stupid. They’ll put two and two together. They’ve already buzzed the place a couple of times today. That’s why I’m in this get up. I figured there was some trouble coming.”

“We need to hide the plane, Robbie.”

“Okay, sugar.”

They dragged the little plane into the cover of the tall pines to the east of the clearing. Robbie snapped off the other wing to make it fit. They threw all the noticeable debris under the trees and covered the lot with pine boughs and leaves.

“Great. Shouldn’t attract anyone’s attention. Let’s go. Madam?” Will offered an arm to Pauline.
Pauline and Will were acting like sweethearts on a Sunday stroll, but Marcie was worried. If anyone can find us, the Mounties can.

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police Force had had to respond to significant changes in deep northern Ontario as the population rose significantly with the advent of the PA. And respond they did. The local Mountie now had a steed that was faster than the average Wing and equipped with all manner of surveillance equipment. Each Mountie covered an area of some two hundred kilometres square. As soon as the email is traced, they’ll be looking.

“So, Mrs. Noel. Have you always been an international terrorist? I’m not surprised by Marcie turning to a life of crime, but you seem to be above that sort of thing.”

“Well, it would be just so much more interesting to say I am a terrorist, but those reports are false. My daughter and her friend aren’t criminals.”

They were walking through the trees on what looked like an animal trail. The air was crisp even in high summer and Marcie could see the lake sparkling in the sunlight through the trees. About twenty metres down the path, they came upon a compound that belied its remote location. A large log cabin sat nestled in the shade of some tall pines. It was clean and new and tastefully designed, had its own generator, solar panels, and three large satellite dishes affixed on stands that reached above the tops of the trees. Plugged in? I guess so. Marcie figured that Will got better bandwith here than the network at his office. I knew he wouldn’t take a real vacation.

Will stopped when he reached a door painted a tasteful taupe, and turned back.

“I was getting a little sick of the city; so I had this place built. I like it enough that I think I’d like to move here.” Marcie felt her jaw go slack and Robbie was uncharacteristically quiet. Will gestured that Pauline should go in ahead of him and disappeared through the door behind her. Marcie and Robbie followed.

“Welcome to my home. Let’s have a look at what the world is saying and then I’ll give you the cook’s tour.”

They were standing in a small reception area. Everyone kicked off their shoes and followed Will in. He turned left immediately. As they went by, Marcie could see a large, well-appointed kitchen to the right. They walked into an open concept living room, with a vaulted ceiling that must have been twenty-five feet high. The furniture was clean in style and reserved in colour, much of the place was done in a warm off-white.

Will walked up a flight of stairs on the left into a loft-style office. Marcie and Robbie followed but Pauline stopped.

“You go ahead. I’ll just have a look around.”

“Sure.” Will answered politely but Marcie could tell his mind was already upstairs.

There were about twenty computers running in this space, but the cables and other paraphernalia had been hidden behind walls and cupboards. The room was much nicer than Marcie’s bedroom and with twice the computing power.

“What was the release about?” Will was looking at Marcie.

“Try ‘fortunatus’.”

“Spell that.” Marcie did and Will started clacking away on his keyboard. Then he stopped and they all waited for the search to be returned. “Well, well. A grand total of four hits. Doesn’t look like you penetrated the market. Okay, and all of the mags that picked up the release are a little beyond the fringe. Ah. Got it in its entirety.” Then there was silence as Will read the whole thing. He turned back to look at them all. “So you’re not from outer space then?” He waited while Marcie shook her head. “Hmph. That’s too bad. It would explain a lot. And you’re not going to eat me for lunch?”

“No, we’re just plain folks.”

“Now, that, I do not believe.”

“Okay, we’re probably an experiment gone a little wrong.”

“I would love to see the research.”

“I’m sorry. I think it’s all lost.”

“Yes, the colony was destroyed. Great idea, living underground though. Something we could all adopt and have a bit more green on the earth.”

“People like to see the sky.”

“Sapiens like to see the sky, you mean.” He stood and looked out a window at the thick forest and the crisp blue above. He turned back to them. “You people need my help. Do you know what the US government is saying?” Marcie shook her head. “They say you and a small group of terrorists were developing weapons in a secret underground lab. They say that they bombed the lab to destroy your work and that one of your bombs was nuclear. Certain parts of Arizona are being evacuated.”

“Smokescreen. They want people out of there.”

“Yeah, well, at least one investigative journo snuck in but he couldn’t find any trace of abnormally high radioactivity. Questions are being asked. Right now, the army says the readings are normal because they’ve managed to contain the waste.”

They were silent. Of course the world wouldn’t be given the facts, but Marcie was unused to dealing with people who so cleverly warped the truth. “Apparently, we could use all the help anyone could give us,” she said finally.

“Well, first,” said Will as he sat down at the computer. “Let’s re-write this release to make sure it actually gets read by the right people.”

Marcie blinked. “I gave it a general distribution. It should’ve gone to all the news relays.”

“Yes, I can see that, but maybe you could target the science reporters and publications instead. Also, the release could use a bit of a touch.”

“A touch?”

“Yep. I used to be in public relations early in my career.”

“Public relations?”

“Yeah. Turns out I really didn’t have the personality to suck up to journalists.”

Robbie snorted. “That’s an understatement.”

Will ignored him. “I changed professions.”

“Fine. How do we re-write the release?”

“I’m just doing it now.”

“Okay.”

“This’ll get a response from some main stream media. What they’ll do with it, though, I have no idea.”

“How will this get a response when mine didn’t?”

“Well, joking aside, if the story weren’t so farfetched, you would’ve done well. What I’m doing is tweaking the thing to give my style and then I’m going to send it personally to an old friend at the Globe and Mail. He’ll read it because it’s from me and he’ll do enough research to run it. Once the Globe runs it, just about everybody else will too. The Globe is notoriously careful.”

“Do you have any tea, Will?” Pauline’s voice came up from downstairs.

“In the cupboard over the coffee maker. Take what you want.” Will was irritated by the interruption, but polite enough. He hunched back down over his computer again and got to work. Presently, Pauline arrived with tea and cookies. They all waited. Ten minutes later, Will sat back and looked at Marcie.

“Okay, let’s send this to the Globe and see what happens, but I think you need to prepare yourself for something else we need to do.”

“Okay, what?”

“I think you should hold a press conference.”

“Oh great.”

Jacqui Burke is a freelance director, writer, and theatrical teacher living in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. She is currently directing Kidsplay 2012: The Mayan Prediction opening June 20. 2012 at the Palmerston Library Theatre for one night only, and The Last Five Years for TOKL Productions running July 20-21st, 2012 at the Alum Studio. Next year, she is looking forward to producing/directing her own show in the fall, directing Love Letters for Encore Entertainment, and directing Lend Me A Tenor for Scarborough Theatre Guild. She is, also, serializing The Pretender, her first novel, online at http://thepretender-amarcienoelnovel.blogspot.ca/. She is preparing for two Shakespeare is Boffo! summer camp sessions for 2012.

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Jacqui Burke
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The Pretender - Chapter 8

2012-05-10T06:37:00.001-07:00

Saturday, July 17, 9:00 a.m.

Helen was sipping coffee, staring out the window of the breakfast nook at the back of Ryan’s house. The room was beautiful, with a lot of natural light, and furnished tastefully in pastels and cream. What a gilded cage. She couldn’t get her mind off the fact that her husband was just downstairs in one of those bare cells. I’d rather be there with him. Ryan’s psychological games were starting to wear.

And the recent revelation that Ryan, himself, was a fortunatus was almost comical. Nothing was what she expected, nothing was what it seemed.

Welsh oozed in and poured himself a coffee. Strike that. There are some things around here that are exactly as they seem. Helen sighed. As usual, Welsh grabbed the remote and flicked on the streaming news. He clicked on a topic and the vidscreen displayed a huge dust cloud marring otherwise perfectly blue skies. Welsh turned the volume up.

“…in Arizona. The weapons testing will continue for at least one more day, and possibly longer. So, if you’re planning a trip, this would be a good time to steer clear of Arizona’s sunny skies. Control is routing traffic around the area. The dust cloud rises a good kilometre….”

Welsh turned off the unit and sat back looking smug. “You picked the right side, princess.”

“Pardon me?”

“You landed right. I don’t think there’s anything we can’t do.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re bombing thousands of people to death in the middle of the United States, but Ryan makes a phone call and all the world ever hears is the traffic report. Incredible.”

Helen bristled, but tried to keep her face impassive. “I didn’t join this team.”

“Yeah, sure. If it weren’t for you, Ryan would still be twiddling his thumbs at Eastdown. You’ve turned his life into a game of twenty questions.” Helen stayed silent. Welsh thought she didn’t understand and continued: “All he’s gotta do is figure out what questions to ask. Ask the right question and you get your answer.”

“And without me?”

“Oh, he’s clever. I’ve been with the guy for a few years, and I’ve seen him pull some savvy moves, but he’s turned into superman with you around.”

“You killed Dr. Roper, didn’t you?” Abrupt change of subject. A trick she learned from Ryan.

Welsh just looked at her impassively, no concern registering on his face at all. “The situation needed a judgement call. I made it. Roper was going to squeal to the next tabloid that offered him a million dollars. We needed containment.”

“Did you?” Containment?

The telephone rang. Welsh got up to answer it.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so loyal to a guy who was so interested in selling you out,” he said as he walked across the room. He picked up the receiver. “Hello? Yeah. Sure, yeah. She’s right here, hang on.” Welsh turned to look at Helen. She was seething inside. Judgement call? Finally, she noticed Welsh looking pointedly at her, telephone receiver in his hand. She rose quickly and crossed the room to take the phone.

“Hello?”

“Ah, my oracle. I have a little question for you.”

Helen said nothing. She knew she couldn’t tell Ryan to go shove it. She held tight. But do I really have to tell the truth? I only get it right most of the time, not all the time. Maybe she’d have to choose her moments, but three percent was still three percent. She had to be wrong sometime.

“Not feeling co-operative today? Do I need to talk to Mr. Welsh? I’m sure Greg would love a little time out of his cell, even if only to spend it with Mr. Welsh. Mr. Welsh gets so enthusiastic, don’t you think? It’s one of the things I admire about him.”

You are such an asshole. Helen couldn’t see any reason why she should play this game anymore. “What do you want to know?” Three percent. Three percent.

“Good. I have Marcie Noel here with me. I’m trying to decide whether she and her friends are going to be important or not to our success. Can you tell me that? Yes or no.”

Helen’s first impulse was to say ‘no’ but if she did, surely Ms. Noel and her friends would be killed, or worse. She didn’t skip a beat. “Yes, they will be important.” Three percent, three percent.

Lying to a fortunatus is risky. According to Dr. Randall, fortunatus are innately capable of reading subtle facial gestures and body language. It was all part of their ability to come to consensus quickly and easily. In general, a fortunatus can tell if someone’s lying, but Helen was hoping she could get away with it on the phone. What if he can hear it in my voice? Helen held her breath and waited for Ryan’s reaction.

“Fine, I’ll keep them with me.” Great! She made a mental note to fudge the answers only when he couldn’t see her. “We should be back in a few hours. Oh, and Helen, I want to spend some time with you. You’ve been a great help to me, and I want you to know I appreciate it.”

Yuck. Helen resisted responding. She knew that she would ruin what she’d just achieved if she told him what she thought of him. Three percent.

“What do you say to joining me for dinner, Helen? No hanky panky, I assure you.”

“That would be nice.”

“Good.” He sounded surprised, almost relieved. “Good. A few hours, then.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, put Mr. Welsh on the phone.”

“Sure.”

She handed the telephone to Welsh and went to stand by the window. The Great Dr. Ryan is fallible after all. Maybe Ryan was slipping a little. If the truth were known, since Helen found out about his true heritage, she had decided he was completely insane.

For the benefit of Welsh, Helen sat down at the table and began sipping her coffee as if nothing at all had happened. After he got off the telephone with Ryan, Welsh tried to make small talk with her, but she remained distant. Nothing new there.

Saturday, July 17, 2083. 11:00 a.m.

“….Ladies and gentlemen, please. I recognise your homes are important to you. I know the Outside scares you; and I know most of you don’t believe that any civilized government would kill defenceless people but, ladies and gentlemen, this is what is happening. The bombs could break through to this level in about fifteen minutes, maybe less. I urge you. I beg you, please, join us in Warren 4. Bring all the foodstuffs you can carry. Please. Your children depend on you.”

The last sentence was a bit of a low blow, but Stellan was certain that the majority of his populace was being pigheaded and stupid. They were throwing their lives away. And, for what? For some misplaced faith and a few pretty little caves. Any average sapiens would be running for his life.

“Sir.” Les was looking anxious.

Stellan nodded and shut down the feed, turned away from the comm console, and away from his view of Origin. He picked up his backpack and put it on. It was heavy with food, a change of clothes, and other personal items. No keepsakes. This is a new life. Stellan walked at a fast pace, Les just behind him. They walked from the office and out into his reception area. Stellan didn’t bother to lock the door.

The corridor in this section of Origin was practically empty. They got on the elevator and rode it down to the Promenade. As the doors opened, Stellan could see that some people had heeded his call. Small family groups were walking away from the residential areas toward the tunnel to Warren 4. They joined the relatively small stream of refugees. This street should be full of people. He slowed a little as he walked by some of his favourite restaurants and shops. They were all empty. Origin was such a beautiful place; he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. He had never planned to leave because, to him, the outside world seemed too chaotic, but if he expected anyone else to leave, he had to go himself. And perhaps it was time for him, for his people, for his race, to strike out and see what the outside world held for them.

Suddenly, the ground shook and the sound of brooding thunder came from above. Zeus is not happy with us. Stellan picked up his pace again. Some of the people around him were clearly panicking as a shower of dust fell down from the ceiling.

“All is well, people. The bombs will not break through for a few minutes. We have time. Walk; don’t run.” His voice boomed around The Promenade, sounding much more confidant than he felt. This, then, is courage. He’d never been so frightened in his life.

Another charge went off and the lights went out. A woman screamed in the darkness. Les lit his torch just as a dozen other torches came on and folks settled a bit but, then, a piece of decorative masonry fell from the Sports Complex with a crash that elicited more screams.

“We’re almost there, people. Keep moving.”

Stellan stopped as he reached the entrance to the tunnel leading to Warren 4. The group of refugees was disappearing down the tunnel. He looked behind him and shook his head in dismay. So few were coming. He glanced up at the walls of the atrium and saw thousands of lights on in the windows of the residential area. Each light was a family and each family was huddling around its only light in fear while an army relentlessly pursued them.

He turned to his aide. “Les, we need to cover our tracks. Do we have time to pull some explosives from the stores?”

“I don’t think so, sir, but I’ll go back if you want.”

There was silence between them as they both considered the issue. People hurried by but were clearly calmed by Stellan’s presence. Many touched him as they passed.

Les finally spoke. “I remember a cache of explosives in the new warren. It was sent over to start the architectural blasting.” His voice betrayed his relief. He clearly didn’t want to go back.

“Great. I’ll wait here. I want you go and find some engineers. Organize them into a team with the aim of completely closing off this tunnel. A full kilometre of collapse rock should slow them down.”

“Sir, you need to come with me.”

“No, Les. I have to close and lock this door and I won’t leave that job to anyone else. I’ll wait until these last stragglers are through, and I’ll seal this door myself. Then, I want the tunnel collapsed behind us.”

“But sir, they’re not likely to come down here for days.”

“Maybe, Les, but I’m not really worried about them following us. Think. What kind of bombs would they use if they realized they’d broken through and their aim was to kill us all? Wouldn’t they be tempted to drop a nuclear bomb?”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“These are the Americans we’re dealing with. They’re the only people in human history who’ve done it not once, but twice.”

Les was silent.

Stallen continued on: “Let’s put some rock between us and a blast like that. These doors won’t be enough protection if they start to use atomics.”

“I’ll get the engineers organized.”

“Tell them they’re not to start blasting until I’m through, if you don’t mind.”

Les smiled at his boss’ joke. “All right.”

“Also, you need to organize the families into Warren Groups and establish lines of communication.”

“Absolutely.” Like most of his species, Les understood communications.

“And, Les, if anything happens to me, you need to facilitate the election of a new leader. Don’t let the group fracture. Go for a quick consensus. Alva’s nephew is probably your best choice.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you, sir.”

“Go, Les.”

Les paused just for a moment, nodded and then turned away. Stellan watched as his aide ran down the rough tunnel, dodging refugees as he went. He was soon out of sight. Stellan turned back to assess the group coming through. “Please, people. Step up the pace a little. There may only be minutes left to us.”

Alva. She’d been livid at the outcome of the raid at Eastdown. She’d been against the effort in the first place, believing that Stellan’s plan would leave Origin open to attack. Perhaps it had been his initiative that would inevitably see so many of his people die, but surely, if they found us so quickly, Origin was already more vulnerable than anyone thought. Clearly, the outside authorities already knew about Origin and clearly, they were actively looking. It was only a matter of time. At least, this way some of us were saved.

They were down to stragglers. Another great blast shook the cavern and let a shower of dust and more debris fall from above. Stellan hoped that there might be a surge of folks at the last minute, even to swell their numbers by a few hundred. Unfortunately, it looked like people had already made up their minds. A particularly loud blast resonated throughout Origin, and Stellan could hear the sounds of crying children.

Finally, the last person came through. There were no more. Stellan shook his head, but still he waited, hoping. The team of engineers approached, lanterns bobbing, faces grim. The lead engineer spoke to him.

“Sir, you have to leave now. We need to start a blast routine.” Members of his team were already drilling blast holes into the rock.

Stellan nodded and almost turned to go, hopelessly, he took one last look. Then, he looked, again. Urgently, he held up his hand to the men behind him. He saw the light of a torch in the distance. He waited and shone his flashlight into the atrium. Finally, he could make out two small figures approaching, hurrying along the Promenade. They were children: a little girl in a pretty pink dress and a little boy in jeans and a t-shirt. They walked and ran and, intermittently, were slowed by debris. Twice, as the two approached, bombs shook the whole complex. Still, Stellan stood by the door waiting. When they finally arrived, Stellan could see that the girl was likely seven and the boy was likely three. The boy carried a small teddy bear and the girl carried a suitcase. They looked like Pooles. Stellan knelt down to meet them.

“Hello, Dr. Stellan. We decided to come.” The little girl looked at him seriously. Stellan nodded back at her, just as seriously.

“Yes,” said the little boy. “Our mother was afraid and our father wouldn’t leave her.”

“No, I’m sure he wouldn’t,” said Stellan.

“But I wanted to come, and Kevin said he wanted to come with me.”

“Right,” said Stellan.

“Our cousins have come!” Kevin looked happy. “Father says this will be the greatest adventure.”

“But Mum was crying when we left.”

“I’m sure she was.” Stellan brushed the girl’s cheek to comfort her. “You are Pooles, yes?”

“Yes, sir.” The little girl nodded. “I’m Francie and this is Kevin.”

“Hello, Francie,” said Stellan. “Hello, Kevin.” He shook their hands. “Now hang on a second while I close this door, and I’ll walk you both down to join the others.”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

Stellan closed and locked the door himself. Closed and locked the door on the only home he had ever known. Closed the door on about twelve thousand people; friends, families, loved ones. Closed and locked the door on a whole way of life. He could only hope they wouldn’t suffer. He took each little child by the hand. “Go to it,” was all he said to the engineers as he strode down the corridor.

He and the children helped to shepherd the stragglers for a kilometre, down the tunnel toward Warren 4. About half way there, the emergency lights came on and they were able to pick up their pace.
As they arrived at Warren 4, Les nodded to Stellan and spoke into his phone.   “All clear,” he said as he shoved the heavy safety door closed. Almost immediately, they felt the tremble of a large blast. Stellan stopped for a moment so the children wouldn’t stumble. He took a moment to look up. He had never seen Warren 4. They were in a large natural cavern, about the size of the Promenade. It would have made a fine warren.

Stellan walked the children over to Harcourt Poole, a man he knew well.

“Grandpa!” The two children squealed. Stellan waited until Harcourt realized that no one was with them. The old man caught Stellan’s eye, shook his head, knelt, and hugged the children close. Stellan turned away.

He found his way back to Les. “How are we doing with organization?”

“We’re splitting up into four family groups, of roughly seven-hundred or so each, and we’re allowing the families to choose representation and establish a hierarchy.”

“Fine. Any reports coming back on supplies?”

“I’m only guessing here, but I think we have enough for one week, maybe ten days.”

“These caverns and tunnels could go on for ever. We’ve got to find out how long it’ll take to get out of here.”

“Right.”

Stellan turned to the crowd that had indeed, now that he looked, split into four groups. “People. Attention, please.” Stellan waited a moment. “Attention. Anyone with extensive knowledge of Warren 4, please see me.”

Almost immediately, a couple of young, lean men approached Stellan.

“Sir? I’m Cain Harvey and this is Luke Poole. We were the ones who found Warren 4 and we did a lot of exploring in these caves.”

Luke piped up: “We never told anyone, but we found a way out a few weeks ago.”

“Can we all get out that way?”

“It’s going to be difficult, sir. There’s a lot of climbing.”

“Well, gentlemen, we can’t go back. We’d better get moving.”

“We’ll need to start through a natural tunnel just to the north east.” Cain pointed the way.

“Fine, we’ll take your lead.” Stellan turned back to the crowd.

“Attention, people. Attention.” His voice was bouncing off the walls as his people stopped to listen. “We need to start moving fairly quickly. Please, organize your groups and prepare to go. Luke Poole and Cain Harvey – raise your hands, boys – will be leading the expedition. We’ll be leaving from the northeast, so Pooles Branch, you’ll go first, please. Tellus Branch, second. Holt Branch, third. Green, last. Please, intersperse good climbers throughout your groups, so they can help the injured, the very old, and the very young. And, folks, grab whatever you can that you think will help. We will not be coming back this way.

People started lifting packs and gathering up children. The ground shook again. The engineers below and the army above were hard at work. Or perhaps that really is Zeus, spurring us on, making sure that we actually go. Stellan turned to Luke and Cain.

“How quickly do you think we’ll be able to get out of here?”

“I’ve never travelled with a group this large, sir, but it would take the two of us a few days.”

“A week, then?”

“More, I’d say. Some of these people are old, sir.”

Stellan sighed.

Les looked at him. “Well, like you say, sir. We’d better get moving.”

Saturday, July 17, 2083. 11:00 a.m.

They had been sitting waiting for hours, feeling the ground shake intermittently, until, eventually, it stopped. They sat some more. The room began to feel uncomfortably hot, and Marcie started to worry about dehydration. Suddenly, the door opened and the bright sunlight blinded her. She squinted, but couldn’t see for the glare. Then, something blocked the sun. She stared at the silhouette of the guard, but the contrast of dark and light made it impossible for her to see his face.

“Get up.” The voice wasn’t kind, but Marcie was getting used to that. They got to their feet. “Get out here and wait by the plane.”

They stepped out, blinking, into the heat of the afternoon, where three other men were waiting for them, guns ready. Marcie didn’t, at first, understand what she was seeing because her eyes were still shy of the light, but as her eyes adjusted, Marcie registered an extensive military compound full of vehicles and personnel. In the distance, she could see a huge cloud of smoke had risen kilometres into the sky. This wasn’t the fabled mushroom cloud of the atomic era, but debris that had blasted into the still air and hadn’t settled. It was a mute, but eloquent, sign that the army was working hard.

She thought about the graceful architecture of the Promenade, of the folk who lived there. She imagined it all in ruins, collapsed under the force of explosions from above. These were peaceful people, almost too much so. They thought they were safe.

A cell telephone rang. The lead guard spoke into it and then hung up. He put the telephone away. “Follow me.”

They were marched a half a kilometre to the RP they had arrived in. Marcie was surprised. What does Ryan want now? The lead guard knocked on the door, then opened it. They were ushered inside.

On the same table where, a few hours before, the military and Ryan had planned their strike, a meal had been prepared and four places set. We always seek out our own. Marcie didn’t know how she was going to play this. She wanted to kill the man and take her time about it – give him a taste of the suffering he had inflicted on so many others – but she caught the look in her mother’s eyes. Pauline saw everything as an opportunity to gain some kind of advantage. Marcie had to try and see this too, but she didn’t know if she could contain her anger.

A chef walked in from the galley. “Dr. Ryan will be with you in a minute. Feel free to freshen up before lunch.” He gestured toward the bathroom and his tone implied that they all needed some ‘freshening up’. He disappeared back to the galley.

Marcie, Pauline, and Robbie looked at each other.

“What? Is Ryan nuts?”

“Maybe, darling, but I think I will go use that bathroom.”

“Me, next,” said Robbie. Marcie sat down hard, feeling a little confused. “What, sugar? Do you honestly believe anyone could stay sane after what he’s done in the last few years? Evil deeds always catch up to one somehow.”

They waited in silence, while each took a turn in the bathroom. When Marcie came out, Pauline and Robbie were standing silently together. She joined them.   A few minutes later, a hatch leading to the front of the vehicle opened, and in strode a victorious Ryan. He filled the room with his confidence, and seemed to stand inches taller. He dismissed the guards who left the vehicle immediately.
“Sit, sit. Eat.” He gestured grandly toward the table. They didn’t move. “Fine, but this could be your last good meal for ages. I would be prudent and eat if I were you. You need your strength. And, you’re nothing as a people if you’re not prudent, yes?”

“Don’t you mean ‘we’.”

Ryan paused and flashed Marcie a harsh look. “No, I mean ‘you’. I don’t count myself amongst your number, this pathetic crew we just slaughtered like sheep. They were weak, unwilling to stand up for what they believed in. Unable to save their own. In the end, unable to even to try to save themselves. At the very least, you three were trying to do something. Eat. I’m telling you, you’re not going to be fed like this where you’re going, so eat.”

It was Pauline who sat down first, pretending to be the sheep he thought her, the coward he wanted to see. Marcie weighed it in her head and sat beside her mother. Robbie had much more trouble with his pride, but eventually took a place as well. Ryan, suddenly, flashed the smile of a gracious host.

“Wine anyone?” Though no one responded, Ryan poured a glass of red wine for all, sat down, and raised his glass. “Cheers.” Marcie had that feeling of being in some kind of nightmare, dancing clumsily through these social graces in the face of such devastation.

Just as they were served their salad, the RP lifted off.

“May I ask where we’re going?” Marcie kept her voice as neutral as possible.

“Back to my home, initially, to be followed by Eastdown, to assist in its reconstruction. But after that’s done, I would love to have some subjects with a bit of fury in them, unlike these hundreds of cattle I’ve already tested. They march in, you know. They do what they’re told. I think if I’d told them all to walk off a cliff, they would, just so that they could comply with someone’s will.”
Marcie wasn’t hungry but she saw her mother nodding, as if interested, and eating her salad with gusto. Marcie tried to do the same, but she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

“Have you destroyed it?”

Ryan fixed her with what was supposed to be a withering gaze, but she didn’t flinch. “We completed our mission.”

“Was anything saved?”

“The complex was completely destroyed.”

“Completely.”

“Yes. But that will not stop our work. We are already prepping for an influx of over two thousand of your kind that we have identified working for governments all over the world.”

“Two thousand?”

“Yes, and we’re tracing families as well. The fortunatus like to breed.”

Perhaps to keep Marcie from responding, Pauline spoke: “What have you learned so far about our species, Doctor?”

Ryan seemed pleased to have someone interested in what he could knowledgeably talk about. “Ah, the fortunatus. Well, where would you like me to start? Fortunatus is taller than sapiens, about two inches on average. They tend toward curly hair. Women tend to have a lithe figure and men tend to have broad shoulders. Fortunatus tends toward a gracefulness in every movement that sapiens must work to achieve…”

He launched into a diatribe on the species fortunatus and its general attributes. Pauline was able to keep him talking for hours on his methods and his conclusions. Marcie only half listened. She finished her meal and sat back. The empty plates and left over food was cleared and dessert and coffee served. Finally, more wine was served. Hours dragged by.

Very near the end of the journey, Marcie startled out of a reverie. She looked around the cabin and realized there were no guards here. She thought back. All four guards who had escorted them from the holding cell had left the plane before it took off. There couldn’t be more than two or three up front, plus the chef, and the flight crew. Ryan was assuming that Marcie and Robbie would be shocked and cowed by the magnitude of his crime. Or, he was just baiting them, rubbing their peaceful nature in their faces.

He knew nothing about Marcie, Robbie, and Pauline, but he thought he did. He was, after all, the expert on fortunatus. He thought they were beaten. They had no weapons, no proper clothing. Probably all of their assets were frozen or stolen by the government. They had nowhere to run. Their faces were all over the evening news. Marcie thought hard. I wonder if we can escape. Surprisingly, the answer came back. Yes, we can.

She stood unceremoniously, lifted the almost empty bottle of wine and smashed it over Ryan’s head, sending glass and port everywhere. Ryan slumped in his chair, unconscious from the blow.

“That’s a bit of a mess, dear. Couldn’t you have used a book end instead?”

“I suppose so, Mum.”

“We need to tie him up, sugar. Let’s see what’s in the kitchen.”

The three of them walked forward. The cook was easy to subdue. Pauline riffled through the drawers and found some heavy cord. Robbie gagged and tied both the cook and Ryan up in the main cabin.

“There must be guards,” Robbie said almost to himself.

“Can’t be more than two or three.” Marcie did her own search of the galley and found a couple of large, sharp knives and presented them to Robbie: “Here.” But Robbie shook his head.

“I don’t use them and they’re definitely not for you, sugar. Someone could kill you with this.” He lifted up one of the knives for emphasis. She put the knives back in the galley and followed Robbie to the door leading to the forward cabin.

Robbie listened for a moment, and then, opened it gingerly to have a look forward. He saw another door standing ajar at the end of a thin service corridor, but still blocking the view forward. In this small space, were two washrooms, both vacant, and a storage locker. From the room beyond, they could hear a vidscreen playing what sounded like the streaming news, and men talking. Robbie looked back and gestured for silence. He slipped through the door. Marcie followed and Pauline came after. They moved as silently as possible through the little service corridor to the next door.

Marcie could see the whole of the small cabin outside the cockpit door. Two men were sitting at a table watching a vidscreen and sipping coffee. Since they were wearing street clothes, these were almost certainly bodyguards and not flight crew. Robbie did not pause. He immediately went for the man facing them, leaving the other man to Marcie. Robbie managed to grab his opponent by the hair and slam his forehead down hard onto the table before the man had a chance to really register their presence. Marcie grabbed a fire extinguisher that was secured to the wall and brought it down hard on her adversary, but he was already reacting to Robbie and she only dealt a glancing blow.

Robbie was soon grappling with his target and so was Marcie. In such a small space, Marcie was at a great disadvantage. She was forced into close hand-to-hand combat with a man two inches taller, many pounds heavier, and with an inches longer reach. She hoped she could keep him occupied until Robbie was done. She lost sight of what Robbie was doing as her opponent turned on her and viciously grabbed her by the throat forcing her down onto the deck in the process. She landed hard. The wind was knocked out of her as the man fell on top of her. She was hopelessly pinned to the deck. She attempted to execute a wrestling move – arching her back and using the force of her legs. She didn’t think she could throw him, but maybe she could distract him from choking her long enough for her to catch her breath. It didn’t work. He looked at her with a bitter anger in his eyes, blood oozing down his face from the blow she’d inflicted on him. And there was something else in those eyes, something dark underneath, some kind of basic hatred. He wasn’t going to let her go. She continued to struggle, but she started to hear a rushing in her ears and she knew she was going to pass out when suddenly, the man’s vice grip on her neck relaxed and she was able to start wriggling away. As she did, she saw Pauline hit him hard, probably for the second or third time, with a bookend.

The man’s body was lifted off of her. Marcie sat for a moment, gasping for breath.

“Take it easy, sugar.”

“No…,” she gasped. “We have to keep going.”

Pauline raised an eyebrow. “Just let me know if you need anymore help, dear.” She smirked and stepped back.

Marcie looked up at Robbie and nodded to his unvoiced question. She got to her feet. Robbie grabbed two guns from the guards’ bodies and passed one to Marcie.

“Let’s go.”

Surely, the flight crew had heard the commotion. Marcie wasn’t surprised that the door was locked when Robbie tried it. She stood out of the way while Robbie shot at the lock, hoping to damage it enough to enter. It held. He shrugged and started to shoot at the door hinges, which eventually gave way. The door was still standing, but Robbie could kick it down when they were ready. How much time do we have? Marcie assumed that the flight crew had already called for help.

“Get back into the service corridor and stay low.” Marcie understood immediately. The space was too small for both of them. She followed Robbie’s directions, pulling her mother with her as she went. She heard the slam of the door being kicked open and then a series of shots being fired. After some silence, Marcie peeked into the companionway. She saw Robbie’s massive form in the flight deck hatch throwing a body back onto the companionway.

Marcie stepped forward and checked the pilot who now lay slumped on the floor next to the guard who had almost choked her. He was out cold, but not dead.

“Hang on, sugar.” Robbie was pulling the other pilot out of his chair. “Step back a bit.” Marcie did so and Robbie dragged another man out of the cabin and onto one of the bench chairs at the table. “Let’s get control of this vehicle, and then, we’ll take them aft. Woah. This guy needs to go on a diet.”

They both moved forward. Marcie jumped into the pilot’s chair and Robbie took the co-pilot’s seat. Marcie took a look at the controls. The pilot’s vidscreen was flashing the message: ‘Intruder lockout.’ Puh. Marcie started working on breaking in. The encryption was much easier than she’d expected. She was able to crack the lockout in seconds. She looked at Robbie and smiled. Too easy.
“Okay, it’s yours.” Robbie was the better pilot of the two of them. She gave the controls over to him.

“Got it.”

Robbie set the RP into a shallow dive, aware that they weren’t prepared for fancy flying. “Check proximity, sugar.”

Marcie shook her head and started banging the keyboard, calling up the radar system. They were in a non-stream flight plan, a luxury reserved for high up mucky-mucks and politicians. The long-range radar was useless because there was far too much traffic, but Marcie couldn’t see any particular group converging on their location. The short-range radar showed some traffic nothing apparently threatening. “Looks clear.”

“Strange. They should’ve called for help. There ought to be a Wing on our tail.” Robbie looked puzzled.

“Maybe there’d be too many questions to answer. There are laws for moving prisoners and Ryan’s broken all of them, from what I can tell. If we fell into the hands of the authorities, we might be able to get some of the story out. Somebody might believe us. He can’t have that.”

“Lucky break.”

Marcie tapped a few more controls. “Will you look at that? We’ve made it to Ontario already. This baby flies.”

Robbie was distracted. “We need to hide out, sugar. We need a few days to just breath.”

“Yeah.”

“But they’ll be expecting Ryan at his house within an hour, yes?”

“One sec.” Marcie punched up the original flight plan. “This plane was en route to his home, from what I can tell.”

“Let me see where we are.” Marcie turned the vidscreen toward him and waited while he levelled the plane. “Oh yeah. I have an idea. Take the controls. I’m going to stow everything down.”

Marcie took control of the vehicle as Robbie disappeared aft. She heard some crashes and bumps and looked back occasionally to see Robbie dragging the bodies and Pauline rushing about stowing smaller items. When Robbie came back, he handed her a parachute.

“Put this on.” He sat down and she relinquished control. She shrugged on her parachute and strapped it securely.

“Now, sugar, you see this rip cord here?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you’re going to pull when the time comes. If it doesn’t work, you see this back-up here?” He pointed to the other side of the pack.

“Yes.”

“Pull that one. Okay?”

“Yes. And if that one doesn’t work?”

“Pray.”

“Very funny.”

Pauline popped her head in. “Ready.” She was wearing her parachute.

“Okay, strap yourselves in, ladies.” Pauline took the navigator’s chair, and they all strapped in.
As soon as they were secure, Robbie dropped the RP. Marcie’s stomach did a flip-flop, and she did her best to control the urge to scream. As they fell, she started to worry about whether he could maintain control of the vehicle; it was larger and, therefore, much more cumbersome than a PA. But he managed the feat and levelled the plane out at just above the treeline, well below radar range. He executed a sharp banking turn north and increased speed to maximum cruising, while turning on all automatic avoidance systems.   The force of the acceleration pushed Marcie back into her chair. This was no average RP. At this speed, most police vehicles would be left far behind. Only military jets would be able to keep up.

“Okay, check proximity again, please.”

Marcie checked the readout and shrugged her shoulders. “Looks clear.”

“Well, sugar. Maybe you’re right. Maybe Ryan’s been bending too many rules. Okay, let me get a new course in.”

“What new course?”

“I’m going to send our friends on a tour of North America.”

“If they have half a brain, they’ll be able to crack it, Robbie.”

“Sure, but body guards and politicians usually don’t have your savvy, sugar. It’ll buy us enough time to get away and confuse anyone trying to find us.”

Robbie sat for a few minutes entering a complex series of instructions into the autonav. He finished, just as an alarm sounded. He took the plane back up to a few thousand feet, checked his location and slowed the vehicle. Then, he stood.

“Come on, ladies. We only have a few minutes before my flight plan kicks in.” They started unstrapping themselves from their seats.

“Do you really expect me to jump out of this plane?”

“Yes, I really do.”

They walked back to the service corridor and to the outside hatch.

“I can’t wait.” Pauline sounded like an exuberant child. Mum, I swear.

“Mum, are you nuts?”

Robbie laughed as he opened the hatch. The wind started to scream in the corridor. Robbie pushed the door securely to one side, turned back and gestured for the women to come forward. Pauline stepped right up and simply walked straight out of the hatch. Marcie could hear her delighted yell as she disappeared. She paused for a second until Robbie gestured her forward. She moved to the hatch and hesitated again. Then, she felt a strong push from behind and was flying. Her yells weren’t ones of delight, but she managed to get control of herself relatively quickly and remember the ripcord. She breathed as much as the rushing air allowed and pulled. The parachute deployed as it should and suddenly Marcie was jerked up into the air. She looked up and saw the canopy open above her and realized she was now drifting with the wind currents.

Now, this is okay. Marcie relaxed and enjoyed the ride, trying, for a moment, to rid her mind of her troubles. She had a fantastic view of a beautiful lake and the surrounding forest, dotted with little cottages. She could see Pauline ahead, flying well and covering much more ground. After a little experimentation, Marcie learned to steer the thing and, though she would come down about a half a kilometre behind her mother, she was at least going in the same direction.

The flight down was over before she knew it. Almost too soon, the trees were rushing up to meet her. Hmmm. So now what? She really didn’t know how to break her fall, but she decided to try a roll and managed, instead, to become completely tangled in the cords. The parachute settled on the ground ahead of her, narrowly missing getting caught in the trees. She came to a rest, slightly more bruised than she already was, and looked up just in time to see Robbie fly past her. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard the sound of him laughing. Ha ha. She spent the next few minutes untangling herself. She was soon pulling in her parachute and stuffing it, as best she could, back in her pack. Best not to leave a bright white elephant behind to let them know I’ve been by this way.

Marcie shrugged on her parachute pack and set off at a light jog to catch up with Robbie and Pauline. She ran for ten minutes, but couldn’t find them. So, she started looking for them in earnest, using a grid-like search pattern and calling their names intermittently. Eventually, she came upon another parachute, but no Pauline and no Robbie. She decided to wait there and climbed a tree to get a better view. A few minutes later, they came walking back into the small clearing chatting together.

“Boo.”

“Very funny, my dear. Now, come down out of there.” Marcie gave her mother a cheeky smile and climbed down out of the tree.

“We’re lucky, but not that lucky,” said Robbie. “It’s going to be a hike to the cabin.”

“The cabin?” Marcie looked a little quizzical. She couldn’t imagine Robbie owning some property out in the middle of nowhere.

“Yeah, an old family friend has this cottage out here.”

“Is he there?”

“She, actually.”

“She.”

“Yeah. She usually doesn’t come up here during the summer. Too many people. She actually likes the seclusion in the winters and comes up here to hibernate.”

“She. Hmph. How far is it?”

Robbie appeared not to notice her discomfort. “I’d say about three hours.”

“So, how are we going to get in once we get there?”

“Aaaah. Patience, young one.”

Marcie stuck out her tongue as he turned away to pack up the other parachute. Moments later, they embarked on the long hike to the cabin through some fairly rough terrain. An hour later, Marcie was thankful for the boots and the fact that the boots fit, but she was getting tired. Robbie was right when he said they needed a couple of days.

They walked for over three hours; covering less and less distance as they hiked because they had to slow for Pauline. Night fell and with it came the mosquitos. Marcie and her mother were being eaten alive, but Robbie seemed not to be bothered. Finally, after being bitten what seemed like a thousand times, Robbie announced that they had made it. Marcie looked up at the winterized cottage sitting on the hill ahead of them. It was beautiful on the outside – chalet style with a high roof and a wall of windows. The place was dark.   Robbie walked by the house, down to the gatehouse at the end of the driveway. The women followed.

“This gatehouse is rarely used. I think Auntie May held a party up here once and that was it.”

“Auntie May?”

“Yeah, my mother’s best friend. She’s gotta be, oh, fifty-five if she’s a day.” He smiled at her. Marcie tried to save her pride by ignoring him. Robbie continued, “She wouldn’t care if we used the place. She told my mother to come up anytime in the summer and showed her how to get in. So, if you know the secrets of the cottage, you know about this gatehouse. He walked up to the door and ran his hand down a series of decorative stars and moons. He picked one particular star and gave it a twist, then a shove, and the door to the gatehouse opened.

“You can use a keycard if you want, but that’s the easiest way. And inside….presto! Keycards to the whole place.” He picked up a ring with five keycards on it. He smiled at Marcie. “C’mon, sugar.”

He shut the door behind him and jangled the keycards all the way back up the hill to the main house. They went inside. It was an open concept chalet-style cottage, with a huge fireplace dominating the main room. At the back of the place, Marcie could see a bedroom and a kitchen. There was a loft area over the kitchen, probably another bedroom. The cottage had an abandoned smell but, despite the must, it was tidy. They investigated the kitchen. There was a good store of boxed milk and fruit juices, canned and frozen goods. They wouldn’t exhaust the stores even if they stayed here a week. Robbie set to hauling in firewood and getting the fire going in the hearth and the stove while Marcie dusted the place and put sheets on the beds. Pauline made dinner.

They ate a hearty meal of canned tomatoes, sausages, and whipped potatoes. Pauline found a bottle of wine. They were able to eat sitting around a roaring fire, drinking a nice burgundy, laughing about how their feet hurt. After dinner, though, the mood became more sombre.

“How long do you think we’re going to be able to stay here?” asked Marcie. “They can’t be that far behind us.”

“Well, I managed to program quite a joyride for Ryan. They’ll be busy saving him, so they may not be that interested in finding us until, oh, around now, I expect. Even then, the flight plan will be wiped the moment the vehicle stops. We have time.”

“So, maybe another day?”

“I would say at least two. They won’t know where to begin to look, sugar.”

“Okay, we stay tonight and tomorrow night, but we leave the next morning. Good?”

“Good.”

“Great.”

Marcie went to bed not long after and slept for ten hours straight. Even then, it was really only the smell of the coffee that woke her up.

Jacqui Burke is a freelance director, writer, and theatrical teacher living in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. She is currently directing Kidsplay 2012: The Mayan Prediction opening in June, and The Last Five Years for TOKL Productions opening in July. She is, also, serializing The Pretender, her first novel, online at http://thepretender-amarcienoelnovel.blogspot.ca/. She is preparing for two Shakespeare is Boffo! summer camp sessions for 2012.

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The Pretender - Chapter 7

2012-04-29T08:38:00.000-07:00

Friday, July 16, 2083. 9:30 p.m.

“Well, I didn’t think things could get any worse really, did you?”

Robbie’s voice was tinged in irony but Marcie stayed silent, watching the rest of the news broadcast on a vidscreen in the Flipside. A solemn, but suitably bland, news commentator was frowning her way through the report:   “…for some unknown purpose. The Eastdown Institute is a luxury rehabilitation centre in Aurora, Ontario. It isn’t understood why Eastdown became the target for a terrorist attack, but inside sources suggest that the, as yet un-named group, was attempting to kidnap a politician’s family member. Marcie Noel and Robbie McLean are long term business associates in the city of Toronto, catering to that city’s elite. It’s believed they gained insider information from one of their clients. They are considered armed and dangerous. Anyone with knowledge of their….”

Suddenly, Marcie stopped the playback. She shook her head in amazement.

“Well, how did they know it was us?”

“They know we’re mixed up in this whole thing. Didn’t Stellan say we were about to be picked up? Maybe they caught me on an internal cam at Eastdown and put two and two together. Or maybe Henderson or Pall mentioned our names. Who knows?”

“Maybe we should take up holding up banks, Clyde.”

“At least there’d be some money in it. This international terrorism is for the birds.”

Marcie frowned. “Robbie, if they suspect that we’re fortunatus, won’t they go after our families?”
“Sure, but my folks have resources. They’ll be fine.”

“Okay, what about my Mum?”

She tapped the comm button on the vidscreen, and said clearly, “Dr. Jeffrey Stellan.” She waited for the connection to go through and suddenly, Stellan’s face was on the vidscreen.

“What can I do for you, Marcie?” He looked worn. His voice was strained.

“Stellan, I need a vehicle, so I can pick up my mother.”

“I understand.”

“I want to leave in a few hours.”

“How many people will you need?”

“Just Robbie.”

Stellan paused. “Okay.”

Marcie rung off and looked at Robbie. “I volunteered you.”

“Good.”

“Before we go, let me check in with the office.” She tapped a few buttons and signalled the waitress. “And I need another cup of coffee.” She turned back to the vidscreen and loaded her webmail account. There were four emails. In the first, Tracy reported that the police searched the place from top to bottom and seized company records and assets.

The second email came from a completely unrelated webmail account, but turned out, again, to be from Tracy. She reported that Jeff was able to export nearly ninety-four percent of the business files while the police did their premises search. He’d gone straight home and copied them to disk, deleted the remote copies, and deleted the file transfer logs. The business could run if Marcie wanted it to. The third email marked the next morning reported that Jeff had managed to hack three bank accounts before the authorities got their hands on them and; although Marcie was a lot poorer, she was by no means broke. Apparently, Jeff had disparaging remarks to make about Marcie’s passwords. He had ‘stolen’ the money and placed it in an offshore trust account for safe-keeping.

In the last email, Tracy reported that in the absence of input from Marcie, she’d decided to do something about the situation, assuming that Marcie was a little too busy to handle things herself. Tracy released the new staff from Noel and Co. and she and Jeff set up a ‘rival’ company that would perform the function of Noel and Co., under the name of TR Associates. TR Associates then hired everyone back and business was continuing as usual. The trust fund was set up as the third partner in the business and Marcie would receive thirty percent of the profit on a quarterly basis.

All in twenty-four hours.

Marcie thought hard. Her old life was gone. She shot back an email asking Tracy to change the arrangement and make her share of the trust account ten percent only. Considering her tarnished reputation, she couldn’t see taking an active part in the business even in the far future. However, the business concept, operating capital, client records, and all the free advice you ever wanted, ought to be worth ten percent and that was all she was willing to take. Considering the growth of the business over the initial two years, Marcie assumed that the ten percent would turn into a tidy sum over time. She was content. Besides, my new life as an international terrorist awaits.

Robbie had ordered meals along with Marcie’s coffee. They ate, went up to their suite and changed into Outside clothes. They walked through the Promenade on their way to the Outside elevators. They noticed that the fields of the Sports Complex were full of people gathering for some kind of Fair. There was music and revelry. Marcie and Robbie stopped and Marcie asked a young woman what was going on.

“We are mourning our dead,” said the woman, with sad eyes.

“It almost seems like a festival.”

“Usually, our people don’t die so young, Ms. Noel. We have taken to celebrating a person’s life and achievements on their death. It’s informal, personal. Usually fun. But this day is so…”

“Heartbreaking.” Marcie put her hand on the woman’s shoulder to comfort her. The woman nodded and moved away. Robbie and Marcie stood watching for a few minutes. “I want to stay, Robbie, but we can’t.”

“Yes, sugar. Time might be an issue, here.”

They continued on and took the elevators up to the tired old farmhouse. They walked out to the barn to collect a PA where they were met by Jason.

“Friends, we have a vehicle ready for you.” He pointed to a brown, family-sized PA.

“Thank you, Jason,” said Marcie.

“I’ve taken the liberty of programming the PA to emit a false identity. Without it, you’ll never get over the border.”

“I want to see how that’s done.”

“Feel free to access the code.

“Well, now that I have a keyboard to work with.”

Jason laughed.

They hopped in, drove the PA out of the barn; Robbie took off and stayed at local altitude. They did their usual trick of making a series of short hops to Chicago. Then, they powered down and re-initialized the PA. Marcie had studied the ingenious code that created a personality to mask the personality in the PA. The border authorities would think they were Jacob Reid and his wife Heather. They would almost certainly not stop them. As they went over the border, Marcie and Robbie stayed quiet. Conversations were monitored without apology by both governments’ border guards. They got into Canada without a problem.

As they flew to Toronto, they took turns napping. They arrived around four in the morning and set down on the roof of her mother’s building. Marcie’s key still worked. I hope I’m still one step ahead of them.

They walked down the stairs to the top floor and to the elevators. One was standing open. They stepped in and pressed the button for the eleventh floor.

“Could be a trap, sugar.”

“I have no choice, Robbie.”

“I know. I’m just saying let’s be careful.”

The elevator opened on the eleventh floor and seemed loud in the stillness of the early morning.   Marcie could clearly hear their footsteps on the carpeted floor. They went to 1115 and Marcie slid her access card into the lock. The door monitor showed green, so Marcie carefully and quietly pushed it open.

“Hold it right there.”

Pauline Noel was sitting in her favourite chair, the one that faced the door. She was a trim woman of sixty years, with slate grey hair and piercing eyes. She was wearing a baby-blue wrap-around robe over cotton pyjamas and fuzzy slippers. She had a large revolver in her right hand.

“Mum, it’s me.”

Pauline looked annoyed. “Marcie, you really need to telephone before you come. You gave me a fright.”

Marcie and Robbie stepped into the suite, closing the door behind them. “Mum, where did you get that gun?”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Yes, sorry. Pauline Noel, please meet Robbie McLean.”

“You don’t look Scottish.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Mum, where did you get that gun?”

“This old thing? I’ve had it for years, dear.”

“Oh.” Marcie didn’t know what else to say. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

“Yes, dear. With all the stink about you, I was going to leave in a few hours, anyway, my normal time to go to the gym. I’m all packed up. Just give me a minute to change my clothes.”

“Okay, Mum.”

“Why don’t you make you and your friend a cup of tea?”

“Thanks, but we’re all right.” Parents never stopped being parents.

“I’ll just be a moment.”

They stood waiting for exactly two minutes and then Pauline emerged from the bedroom wearing a smart pantsuit and carrying an overnight bag.

“Is that all you’re taking, Mum?”

“Oh yes, dear. It’s mostly photographs, actually.”

Marcie always thought that her mother was the most interesting woman she’d ever met. It shouldn’t surprise her that Pauline would be ready and willing to pull up stakes and go at the drop of a hat.

“All right, ladies. We should leave.” Robbie was looking a bit nervous. Marcie knew what was bothering him. After the fiasco at Eastdown, and with their faces all over the evening streams, this was too easy.

Marcie and Pauline nodded and they walked to the door. Pauline took one more look around the condo.

“Such a shame, Mum.”

“Ah.” Pauline smiled. “Easy come….” She walked out the door. Marcie and Robbie were right on her heels. Robbie closed the door quietly and they walked to the elevator, silently. The elevator was still there. They got on and Robbie pushed the button for the roof.

“Mum, did you know we were different?”

“Of course, dear.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“Soon, dear. It’s not an easy subject to breach.”

“Well, no. You’re right.”

“So. Are you a terrorist, dear?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Hmmm. I have to tell you. I have a few talents that I haven’t used in years, dear. I might be able to give you a hand.”

“That’d be great, Mum.”

They exited the elevator and walked over to the PA. It was a quiet morning. The air carried the chill that comes with the dew. The sun wouldn’t be there for a half hour, but the eastern horizon had already started to glow. There was little traffic in the streets below or the skies above. No one appeared to be about, nor would they be for some time, but Robbie is a distrusting sort. When he got into the PA, he had the car display a proximity log and he ran a status check.

The reports came back and Robbie paused, but held the expression on his face. He turned the vidscreen toward Marcie and pointed out that the proximity log was empty but that the status check revealed an anomalous object attached to the underside of the vehicle.

Marcie picked up the keyboard and started tapping. She was able to recover the data from the wiped log. The retrieved log clearly showed activity under the vehicle in the last ten minutes. She turned the screen back, so Robbie could see the results.

They had to guess whether it was a bomb or a beacon. Which do they want most? To blow us up or to find Origin? Pauline was watching intently from the back seat.

“Beacon or bomb?” Robbie mouthed the word, barely whispering.

“Beacon.” Marcie mouthed the word back. Robbie was nodding in agreement. He obviously agreed with her.

They looked at Pauline. “Beacon,” she said silently.

Robbie shrugged. Since all of their answers were the same, the probability of the answer being the right one was much higher than if only one of them had guessed or if they had disagreed. He initiated the start-up sequence. The PA started up with no problem. Except that they were being tracked, of course. He paused for a moment and then said clearly into the microphone: “Trump International Hotel.” Marcie was about to protest, but he shook his head and brought his finger to his lips. They may be listening in on our conversations. They probably know what he owns and what he doesn’t. After all, THEY did a background check.   Marcie sighed.

“Well it’s a beautiful morning, if a little chill. I understand the temperature for the day will hit around twenty-six degrees, but I looked up New York before you came and, it’s too bad, but it’ll likely be raining there today. Such a pity. But I guess you wouldn’t like to be outside in New York in July, really, would you? So, perhaps we’ll keep to the hotel facilities and the nice shops, shall we? Do they still have Mama Leone’s? Oh they must. It’s been around for a hundred years – a real landmark in the city….”

Pauline kept on talking with Marcie and Robbie interjecting only from time to time. She didn’t let up until they slipped into the figure eight over New York. Then, she quieted down during the drop and landing. She pulled a scarf and a set of dark glasses out of her purse. Marcie put the scarf over her hair and slipped on the glasses while Robbie parked the vehicle.

“There’s not much I can do about Mr. McLean,” said Pauline.

“It should be okay, Mum.”

They got out and walked toward the entrance. The concierge recognized Robbie immediately and hurried over to greet them. He was a small, trim man with a warm smile.

“Ken, good morning.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“We’ll need two adjoining suites under my name, please. Will you take care of it?”

“Certainly, sir.” Ken nodded and walked over to the check in desk.

Robbie turned back to Marcie and Pauline. “Okay, ladies, wait here. Ken will show you to your suite. I have a little business to attend to outside.”

Marcie nodded and took her mother’s arm while Robbie returned to the PA pad outside.

“Come on, Mum”

“Don’t you think we might be able to help Mr. McLean, Marcie?”

“You have to call him Mr. Grant here, Mum. Come on.”

Marcie and Pauline walked over to the counter to wait for Ken, who looked up and smiled at them as they approached.

“Almost finished, ladies.” A few more taps at his computer and he walked around to the front of the counter. “This way please.”

Friday, July 16, 2083. 6:00 a.m.

Before she knew it, Marcie was washing the tense night away in a hot shower. Robbie had come downstairs only minutes behind them and reported that the bug was removed from the underside of the vehicle. Robbie had put it inside the cab, to be certain that anyone monitoring it would consider all kosher. He didn’t want their pursuers to give up on the beacon and send a real plane to follow them. They decided to eat breakfast in their suite. Robbie called in an order, and Marcie hopped into the shower.

In what seemed only a few minutes later, Marcie heard a rap at the bathroom door. “Food’s here!”
“Thanks, Mum.” Marcie sighed, stepped out of the shower, and grabbed a towel. She dried off and pulled on one of the hotel bathrobes. As she walked out into the main room, she saw Pauline and Robbie sitting at the table, already eating what looked like a sumptuous meal. Robbie was talking.

“…and, oh, hi, sugar.” He gestured to her meal. “Eat up, we need to get going.” He turned back to Pauline. “When we leave, we need to leave everything behind as if we were planning to return, including your overnight bag, Mrs. Noel, photographs or no.” Pauline looked sad, but didn’t complain. “Take heart, Mrs. Noel. I’ve left instructions. I’m hoping they’ll be saved for you. Okay?”

She brightened up a little. “Call me Pauline, Mr. Grant.”

“Only if you call me Robbie.” He smiled. “Okay, we’ll get on the elevator as usual, go down to the lobby, and then go up to the roof in the service elevator, after I disable the security system for a bit of maintenance. We should be able to get up there and out before any cameras pick us up and before the sharks have any idea what’s going on. But to get away, I think we’re going to have to risk a drop. Okay?”

Marcie nodded. “Okay.” Pauline nodded too. A ‘drop’ was an unscheduled fall from the lanes and a risky move in more ways than one.

“All right, eat up. Could be your last meal.”

“Not funny, Robbie.”

“So Robbie, is it Grant or McLean, then?” Pauline was the kind of women who liked to know everything about everyone, and she never forgot a thing. Robbie seemed to understand this intuitively. He just smiled and shrugged. Best not to commit yourself one way or another.

“What do you think?”

“Grant.”

“Is that wishful thinking?”

“Perhaps. I always wanted my daughter to marry well.”

Marcie said nothing as they both looked at her. She sipped a little more coffee and turned away to stare at the stream of rush hour traffic. How is it possible that her mother would make this whole thing about finding a man?

“Mum, aren’t I supposed to be saving the world, here?” Marcie didn’t bother to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

“Yes, of course, dear. But you must consider what you’re going to do afterward. Hmmmm?”

Marcie felt a little stymied and then she looked at Robbie. “Are you done?” She stood up. “Because I’m done.”

Robbie was clever enough not to laugh. Marcie went into the bedroom to change into some clothes and pull back her hair. She was back in a few minutes. Pauline and Robbie were both standing by the door waiting for her.

As they left the suite, they chatted like they hadn’t a care in the world. Marcie was getting used to playing this game and was still amazed that her mother played it so well. I’ll have to find out how she learned all this. They walked down the hall to the elevator and punched GL for ground lobby. A few moments later, they emerged and the women waited while Robbie went to consult with the day manager. Marcie watched as the two men greeted each other warmly and had a quick conversation. They shook hands as Robbie left to walk back to Marcie and Pauline.

“Pauline,” he said as he approached. “I just arranged to show you around the kitchens. I know you like a bit of gourmet food, and I thought you might want to see a professional team in action.”

Pauline beamed at him. Marcie schooled her expression. Her mother liked food but hated cooking. “Robbie, how gracious of you. I would love a tour. Come Marcie, darling.”

“All right, ladies. Just this way.” He gestured to the rear of the lobby and started walking. They followed. “The main kitchen is one of the most important elements of a world-class hotel like this. One kitchen is responsible for preparing food for three main meals – breakfast, lunch, and dinner – in two of the three restaurants on premises, as well as, brunch seven days a week, mid-morning coffee break in the lounge, High Tea in the lounge, and room service in our eight hundred rooms twenty-four hours a day.”

“Who runs the other restaurant, Robbie?” Pauline looked at Robbie with an honest inquisitiveness. Mum, you’re good at this. They went through an automatic door into one of the service corridors on the main floor. Unlike the lobby, this floor was tiled, a neutral off white. and was busy with hotel staff going about their business.

“We hire the best chefs in the world. Currently, our head chef is Jean Georges, a Frenchman from Thailand, who combines the two traditions in the most delicious way. Would you like to eat at his restaurant this evening?

“Jean Georges! We would have to wait weeks for a reservation!”

“Oh no. We could go tonight.”

“I would love to.”

They arrived at a set of double doors. The security monitors were showing a solid green. With a kitchen this busy, Marcie wondered when they ever locked those doors. Beside them, a maid was feeding dirty dishes onto a conveyor that disappeared through the wall. Robbie pulled the door open for the women to enter. The kitchen was huge and manned by two armies: one preparing food and one clearing away. The hustle and bustle was impressive. Robbie continued the tour guide patter as they walked and Pauline continued to appear extremely interested. Marcie thought she could get away with looking a bit bored.

Suddenly, Robbie stopped talking, turned on his heel, and started walking back to the door they came in. Marcie perked up, Pauline lost her look of rapt attention, and they both followed him. Robbie pushed the door open and Marcie noticed that the security system no longer showed green. It showed nothing at all – Robbie must have had the security shut down. I wonder how much time we have. She picked up the pace. Robbie walked them to a bank of service elevators where Robbie pushed the ‘up’ button. They stood waiting beside a maid who clearly recognized Robbie and looked nervous in his presence.

As the elevator dinged its arrival, Robbie turned to the maid and said, “Why don’t you take the next elevator, Eleanor. You’ll be glad you did.” The young woman took his advice and stepped back to leave them room to enter. She moved toward the call button as the elevator door closed.

“As you might have guessed, all security is off. We have about three minutes, sugar.”   There he goes reading my mind again. Robbie pulled out his PA remote and pushed the button that started the vehicle. By they time they got to the roof, the PA would have run through all of its checks and would be ready to leave immediately. The elevator opened onto the roof, and Robbie walked them directly to the PA. They took care not to speak to anyone. Most of the employees would likely be rigorously interrogated after they left. It was best if they knew nothing. The PA was already running and ready to take off. All Robbie had to do was identify a destination. He leaned over and spoke clearly into the microphone: “Tampa, Florida.” The PA lifted off immediately, paused for clearance from Control, and then began a steep climb to the state-to-state lanes. Robbie and Marcie scanned the skies intently, but could see no pursuers. Presently, they levelled off.

“But, Robbie, won’t they be able to track our flight path through Control?”

“Sure, but Control approved a flight to Florida. Once we’re clear of NYC, I’m going to do the unscheduled drop and from there, we’ll fly low home. Okay?”

Marcie felt a little sheepish. “Sure. Don’t we have to watch what we say?”

Robbie fingered the small beacon. “Na. It’s just a tracking device, no more. We’ll dump it over a farmer’s field, and then, we’ll execute the drop. Hopefully, it’ll be enough to get us clear.” But he looked worried.

“Why didn’t we leave it behind?”

“They would notice right away if it wasn’t moving as we took off – especially if they’re monitoring Control and know what we’re doing. They’d know something was up and they’d just sick a Wing on us.”

“But they’ll notice that the homing signal stops moving when you drop it.”

“Sure, but I’m hoping they’ve relaxed a little, now they think we don’t know about the beacon. From their point of view, we think we’ve pulled off an escape and they think they have their little secret and can still track us. I’m hoping that they’re going to rely too heavily on the edge they think they have. They want us to lead them to Origin. So, they need to back off and let their little plan work.”

“I’ll cross my fingers you’re right.”

About fifteen minutes later, when they were well clear of the congestion of New York:

“Okay, this is it.”

They were flying over a farmer’s field. Robbie opened the pilot’s window and threw the tracking device out, and then, punched the drop button on the dash. The PA fell like a stone. The descent was too abrupt for Marcie’s stomach, which stayed a few hundred feet up well after they fell. Robbie levelled off just above the tree line over East Brunswick, Pennsylvania and continued south for a few kilometres.

“I’ll stay on this course until we’re absolutely sure this worked.”

Marcie checked the proximity monitor and saw that they were well below radar range, practically skirting the tops of the trees. ‘Topping’, she and her friends used to call it when she was a teenager.

The proximity monitor was clear for a few moments, and then, Marcie sucked in her breath as a dot appeared not far behind them and at their altitude. Marcie turned and looked out the aft window. She saw that a black, super-speed reconnaissance vehicle had levelled off behind them. A Wing. Shit.

Control established the Winged Force, its own police, the same year it went live, with jurisdiction only in the streams. The WF, by international treaty, enforced a global area, ignoring borders and domestic considerations. A Wing, watching the flight streams would, as a matter of course, drop out of the flow to follow a vehicle making an unscheduled descent to ensure there was no emergency. To do this part of their job, a Wing had a few extra capabilities. The WF could legally monitor PA cab conversation just following a drop, to ensure that the pilot wasn’t out of control. As it turned out, over fifty percent of folks making unscheduled drops were involved in criminal activity and monitoring their conversations usually hastened their capture. Convenient, that. So, Robbie, Marcie, and Pauline stayed quiet for a few beats. And then, Pauline started talking again, mainly about nothing, but complaining intermittently about having to go to the washroom. She filled the air with innocuous conversation until they were able to stop in at a gas station. The Wing hovered above the gas station for a short while, then, took off. Marcie and her mother went to the bathroom for good form.

“Mum, that was great.” Marcie whispered as they disappeared into the building.

“Yes, you must never underestimate the power of small-talk, darling.” Pauline smiled and checked her face in the mirror. “Come on, let’s get some snacks for the trip.”

They went downstairs to the snack bar and bought a bagful of goodies and drinks. By the time they got back to the PA, the vehicle had been recharged and was ready to go. They all climbed in. They lifted off without a hitch and headed manually westward on the lowest stream. They’d managed to get away, but it was going to be a slow ride. Robbie set the PA on automatic and sat back looking at Marcie. She raised her snack bag.

“Cheesy?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

As Robbie reached into the bag, they heard a solid metallic ‘thunk’ from above.

“What was that?”

“Sugar, that was the sound of an attach magnet. A Wing has decided to pick us up.” Robbie sighed. “We should have taken a ground car.”

Two hours later, they were back in Toronto, but Marcie couldn’t figure out what they were doing there. By international treaty, a Wing is required to remand a criminal in the district over which he is apprehended. But in their case, the PA was impounded by the WF and they were transferred to a prisoner transportation vehicle. They were flown almost a thousand miles and over a border, all the way to the city of Toronto. Then, they were remanded not to the local authorities, but to the RCMP – Canada’s federal policing agency. They were formally charged with terrorist activities, and then, herded into a vehicle and flown for about fifteen minutes. But when Marcie stepped out of the plane, they weren’t at a prison, as she expected. She was standing, instead, in front of a beautiful house in the country, with a wide flowing staircase up to a grandly designed front entrance. The house was large, three stories with a wing. The grounds were tastefully landscaped and full of flowers. Marcie blinked. A guard shoved her from behind so she headed up the stairs. They reached the top and the guard rang the bell. A self-possessed woman in her forties opened the door and ushered them in. The guards waited outside. The woman closed the door and then turned and spoke to them.

“Please stay here. I would advise you not to try anything. This facility is heavily patrolled and you’re a long way from anything or anyone who might be inclined to help you. Do you understand?” Robbie nodded and Marcie just stared. Pauline was wearing her most vacant expression. “This way, then, please.”

They followed the woman down a long, wide hallway to the wing where they turned the corner and walked into a small seating area. The woman didn’t invite them to sit down. Instead, she led them straight to an ornate door and tapped on it lightly.

“Come.” A man’s voice called.

They entered the room and found themselves in a large office, hexagonal in shape, with windows floor to ceiling on the three outside walls. The interior walls were dominated by mahogany bookshelves full of hard cover, beautifully bound books. Dr. Lawrence Ryan stood in the shadows of some thick drapes, behind a grand and ornate desk, also done in dark mahogany. Marcie could barely make him out, but she could clearly see a woman was sitting on a visitor’s chair in front of the desk. Helen Pearce! Marcie, Robbie, and Pauline walked into the room.

“That’ll be all, Hilda.” He was talking to their tour guide.

“Thank you, sir.” Hilda’s voice communicated her relief. Clearly, she wasn’t comfortable with her new guests. She disappeared and closed the door behind her.

“Welcome. Some introductions are in order, I think. I’m Dr. Lawrence Ryan of the Eastdown Institute. I’m sure you’ve recognize Helen Pearce. I understand you’ve been looking for her. Helen, please meet Marcie Noel, her mother Pauline Noel, and Robbie Grant, a business associate.”

Helen looked a little confused. “How do you do?”

Marcie didn’t react. She was having trouble reconciling the situation. This man was far too powerful. He can hijack prisoners and have them brought to his…, what? His home? He must be extremely confident in his resources to be standing there so composed in front of them all, no fear showed on his face, nor was betrayed by his behaviour. Not even nervousness. He was above the law and a law unto himself.

“How do you do,” said Pauline after a slight pause. “I hope you’re well.”

Again, Helen seemed confused by the civilized, almost bourgeois, conversation. “They’re treating me well, yes. I…I’m well.”

“Well, that’s something, my dear.” Pauline turned to Ryan. “And you, Doctor, are well I hope.”

“Very well, thank-you.” Ryan was assessing Pauline with shrewdness in his eyes. She didn’t fool him. “Please ladies and gentleman, come this way. We can have some lunch and discuss exactly what I want from you.”

He led them back out to the hallway, down to the back of the house, and into an airy dining room with a table already set for five. The moment they sat down, they were served lunch. Ryan and Pauline kept the conversation light for the whole meal, to the point where Marcie was almost starting to enjoy herself. The change in tone came without warning.

Ryan sat back and smiled his most ingenuous smile. “Well, I suppose you know why you’re here.”

“No, we do not.” Marcie’s voice was firm.

“You’re here, Ms. Noel, because we want the location of Origin. We’re prepared to do whatever it takes to get Origin and we’re not above using any means to extract information. Do you understand? Helen, is Ms. Noel going to tell me where the colony is?”

“No.”

“Hmmmmm. Not frightened of me, are you.”

“No.” Marcie said the word as matter-of-factly as possible.

“You should be, Ms. Noel.”

“Actually, Dr. Ryan, it’s you who should be frightened of me.”

“What are you talking about?” He almost laughed. He thought she was bluffing.

“We found the results to the blood tests, Dr. Ryan. You have a very efficient secretary – or at least you did until recently. He or she kept back ups of absolutely everything and did it daily. Someone tried to delete them all but, wouldn’t you know it? We were able to save all those files. Wasn’t that lucky? We know what you are. You know? …I think you should do some testing to see how fortunatus luck cancels itself out within fortunatus society. I would be really interested in seeing how that works. For example, are we luckier when we are on the side of the just? Does that give us an edge?”

As the impact of what she was saying settled on Helen, she stared a Ryan in astonishment. Ryan had frozen as Marnie started to speak, his coffee cup almost to his mouth. But his mind was able and quick, so it was Marcie’s turn to be surprised. He recovered almost immediately and with confidence. He again flashed what was becoming his famous smile.

“Well, now, Ms. Noel, whom do you think they’re going to believe? A non-human terrorist like yourself, or me: a pillar of my community, a top-notch researcher, and a candidate for high public office? Hmm, who do you think?”

Marcie sniffed. “What ever happened to Doctor Roper, Dr. Ryan?”

“Dr. who?”

“Roper. Helen’s gynaecologist. Remember him, Helen? He died. Then, they found him, a month later, lying on one of his own examination tables, crawling with insects, half rotted, soiled with the dirt they originally used to bury him.”

“Ah, yes. I remember. We killed him.”

“Really.”

“Yes. He was the blabbing kind.”

“Oh?”

“We have a government directive that requires the attending physician to report a patient whose blood analysis returns with fortunatus markers. They are required to call our hotline and we take over from there. Most physicians have a sense of professional discretion, but Dr. Roper didn’t. He’d already requested money in return for Helen Pearce.” Helen’s eyes grew wide. “He wanted to go to the tabloids.”

“Ah, I understand. Can’t have anyone knowing about your little hospital of horrors. But why would you dig him up?”

“To tarnish Helen’s reputation, of course, and to make everyone think that she killed him for his money and tried to cover things up. There’s no crime without a body.”

“Right. But if you are a murderer, Dr. Ryan, it’ll be a little difficult for you to run for high public office.”

“No one will ever find out, Marcie. One thing about sapiens. They tend to believe what they want to believe – or should I say, what I want them to believe.”

Marcie looked at him. His reputation was absolutely unsullied and his star was on the rise. “I think you are a monster, Dr. Ryan.”

His smile disappeared. “You don’t know the half of it, Ms. Noel. Not the half.” He stood and paced the room for a few minutes. The silence was heavy. “Helen, am I going to find out where Origin is?”

“Yes.”

“Am I going to destroy it?”

“Yes.”

“There.” He turned on Marcie. “You see? You may as well give in.”

Before Marcie could speak, the telephone rang.

“Damn. Guards!” Ryan let the phone ring until the two guards appeared. These men were burly and shrewd, the best that sapiens had to offer. Ryan picked up the phone. Marcie stayed put.

“Ryan.” They waited in silence while Ryan listened to the caller. “Yes, yes. Good. Send all the details to me and get General Chaisen on the line, please. Thanks.” He hung up the telephone. “Well, I didn’t need you after all. One of your operatives responded to our line of questioning. Ms. Noel, I’d like to have you killed, but I think both you and Mr. Grant will make excellent subjects. We’ll take your mother along to ensure that you comply, hmmmm?” Ryan fixed her with a piercing look. “Put them downstairs until we can transport them.” He pressed an intercom button. “Hilda? Inform the kitchen we’ll have three new guests in the basement. I’m afraid they’ll be around for a few days. We have some pressing business.” He looked at the guards. “That’s all. Come, Helen,” he said as he strode from the room. Helen Pearce walked behind him almost meekly.

Marcie had never felt so trapped, so hopeless. She stared at those beautiful windows and the open sky beyond. Would I make it? No, not today. She stood and followed the guards out of the room. They went to the back of the house and down a narrow staircase to the basement. They walked past an impressive wine cellar and some storage facilities but quickly came to a desk behind which sat a rigid looking young man. He stood as they approached.

“New guests?” He looked almost happy.

“Yeah. Keep the old lady away from the other two.”

“No problem.”

Marcie always marvelled at sapiens cruelty, feeling an anger begin to burn in her stomach. Then, she remembered Ryan, a great example of fortunatus compassion, and settled down. They walked down a hallway with seven doors, three on either side and one at the end of the hall. Marcie was shoved into the first door on the left. The door was locked behind her. Marcie looked around. An eight by five room. A cot and a chair. No window. She heard two other doors slam. She stood for a moment, and then, she sat on the chair and just breathed.

Saturday, July 17, 2083. 5:30 a.m.

Marcie was only dimly aware of a loud banging on the door. She opened her eyes and blinked. Same little room. Same chair. She focused on something new: food on a tray on the floor in front of the door. She got up and went over to pick up the tray. She sat on the chair and pulled back the tin foil.

The meal was much better than she might have expected. Scrambled eggs and bacon, some toast, and coffee. It was still hot. She ate quickly, not knowing what to expect. A while after she was done, there was another rap; then, the door opened without ceremony. A man with short hair and a guard’s uniform poked his head in.

“Shower time, princess.” He threw a towel at her and disappeared. She caught the towel, stood, and followed him. He walked ahead without fear. Another guard was training a gun on her as she came out into the hallway. The door at the end of the hallway stood open, waiting. She went inside and found a washroom that was still steamy with the previous user’s shower. The door was slammed and locked behind her. She flicked on the fan and began to disrobe. Then, she looked at the mirror and she could see a message written in the steam. ‘Patience Sugar’ was all it said. She smiled and wiped the mirror clean. Moments later, she was in a hot shower, washing off the dirt and the events of the last few days. It almost worked.

But. when she got out of the shower, she saw that her clothes were gone. In their place, she found a set of blue workman’s overalls, some plain underwear, and socks. She got into the clothes, thankful that they were clean, but when she looked in the mirror, she almost laughed. So much for style. When she was done, she tapped on the bathroom door. It opened almost immediately and she walked out into the hallway in stocking feet. The two guards were waiting for her. One gestured toward the floor, and there she found a pair of army boots, in her size. She pulled them on, tied them and stood looking at the guards.

“Follow us.”

She did. There was little else for her to do. They went back upstairs, but this time, out the back door. Marcie could see a PA pad with a large RP idling on it. They marched her straight to the door and stopped beside it, gesturing that she should get in. Marcie went up the two stairs into the vehicle and only one guard followed.

“Last prisoner reporting, sir,” he said.

“Very well.”

Ryan was sitting at a thin conference table at the back of the RP. There were three other men with him and four guards watching Pauline and Robbie, who were wearing the same blue outfits as she. They were sitting quietly on bench seats, a few feet away from Marcie. Between the prisoners and the conference table were banks of vidscreens, keyboards, and other communication equipment. One of the guards gestured that Marcie should sit. She took the place beside Robbie. He said nothing, so she followed suit. The silence gave them some time to listen. A man Marcie didn’t recognize was talking to Ryan.

“… of Eastdown and requires that a whole new wing be added or that we consider processing clients earlier. But really, my question is this: If the client isn’t unusual in any way after the first round of tests, why are we housing them at Eastdown? We need a facility, or a compound, where these people can live, something self-sustaining, something that won’t cost the taxpayers any money. And keep it out of the way, certainly not on US soil. They won’t want to play host to a penal colony.” POW camp, you mean.

“Yes, great suggestion. Perhaps we can put them to work.” Ryan was nodding. “Find the real estate.” The man nodded and made a note in his book. “All right, then, gentlemen. We have dispensed with other business. Are we ready for today’s strike?”

“Absolutely, sir,” responded the three-star general sitting beside him. I gotta read Who’s Who.

“Then, let’s do it.”

The meeting broke up. A couple of the men, including the general, left the vehicle, and the rest of the staff began its pre-flight preparation. One of the guards told them to buckle up. All staff sat and strapped themselves in, including the prisoners. They heard the engines rev, and then, felt the vehicle lift off and move forward. It banked sharply for a time, levelled off and cruised. Marcie didn’t have to be told where they were going.

A few thousand miles away, a sea of attack vehicles converged on the old farmhouse that stood above Origin. Tanks, jeeps, and troop conveyance vehicles, dozens of them, kicked up enough dust to colour the sunrise pink. In those pink skies, flew hundreds of PAs and utility vehicles. The sound of this advance was deafening.

During the flight, the RP’s vidscreens were alive with the footage of the advancing army, with the faces of the commanding officers checking in for more instructions, with plans and diagrams of Origin itself. What Marcie could see, however, wasn’t current. Maybe they don’t know about the new warren.

Ryan was extremely busy. Although clearly he wasn’t a military commander, he seemed to be in charge of the operation. He was constantly talking on a headset, pulling people together, consulting with as many as ten people at once, generals, et al. No wonder he felt powerful. Marcie couldn’t say he was drunk on it, but she could see that he was definitely in his element; coordinating and communicating with his team. Such a good little fortunatus. This was what he was born to do. She could see how he’d be loath to give that up. No fortunatus community would accept him after what he had done to so many of his own; despite his obviously knowing the truth. While, conversely, Sapiens would never accept him. He was stuck in a living purgatory with nothing forward and nothing back. He’d best live out this role to its fullest.

Once Robbie tried to speak to Pauline, who was looking a little bleak, but the guard nearest him didn’t bother talking; he just hit Robbie in the shoulder with the butt of his rifle. They stayed silent for the rest of the journey.

Hours later, Marcie felt the RP descend, and then, eventually land. Ryan and a couple of aides left the vehicle immediately without even a glance in their direction. Some time passed. Then, the telephone rang and one of the guards answered it. He spoke briefly in quiet tones. Marcie couldn’t hear what he had to say. He nodded a lot. Then, he hung up the telephone and gestured to the men with him. The four guards came over and stood above them.

“Get up,” said one.

The three of them stood and followed two guards out the door. The other two guards went behind them.

The sun was well and truly up, and Marcie immediately recognized the farmhouse, its humble outer buildings and barns. All around the area, Marcie could see tanks and soldiers: the pride of the US army. Above, flew a veritable hive of military vehicles. PAs, carriers, attack planes, and jets.

Marcie, Pauline, and Robbie were marched into the farmhouse and down to the cellar. They passed five bodies that had been left in a pile by the big oak tree. The old screen door had been ripped off, and the house inside was askew, obviously roughly searched. In the cellar, Marcie was surprised to see a wall of potatoes and turnips. No elevator door. How’d they do that?

Ryan was standing studying an old blue print. He looked up and smiled civilly when they came down the stairs. He waited until they were all in the small cellar before he spoke.

“Who can tell me how to access the elevator?” He sounded like Marcie’s grade three teacher. They were silent. He raised his eyebrows and continued: “I don’t think you understand our problem here, ladies and gentleman. If we cannot gain access without your help, we’re going to start using explosives. And if anyone dies, it’ll be on your head.” Oh, right, and your intentions are to invite them out to dinner! They said nothing. Marcie didn’t feel like being the resident consultant on Origin. Let them figure it out by themselves.

“Sir, is it worth a stealth approach anyway?”

Ryan was shuffling papers. “Not stealth, just more efficient. I thought it might be easier to deploy a bomb with the elevator. We could use the opportunity to test that thermonuclear device you’ve been talking about.”

Marcie was dumbstruck. An atomic bomb? Atomics had been outlawed by all civilized nations for decades. Every great hesitant step forward precipitates two confident strides back. She said nothing and tried to keep her face neutral.

“According to these plans,” Ryan continued. “There’s a large open area directly below us. We could simply send the device down and trigger it as it reaches the bottom. It would save us all the ammunition we’ll need to break through.” Marcie couldn’t help but pull a face. How economical.

“Well, the elevator has to be behind this wall, right?”

“You know. I might want to study some of what’s down there. Let’s just start breaking through with conventional explosives. Get a team on it. You,” he said gesturing to a guard standing idle in a corner, “get rid of these three, please. Lock them down.”

Marcie, Robbie, and Pauline were lead up and out of the cellar, out of the farmhouse and to a vehicle that looked like a troop carrier, but was actually a kind of brig. They were marched into a small, windowless room and the door was closed and locked behind them. They decided to try and relax and wait, though Marcie couldn’t help pacing back and forth.

After a while, the vehicle they were in started up, and they could hear a number of other vehicles around them doing the same. Their vehicle started to move but didn’t take off. They drove for maybe two minutes and then stopped. Now what?

Possibly a few hours later – they had no idea of the time – the ground started shaking intermittently. They all three felt the tremors, and they all three understood what the tremors meant. Origin was being destroyed, without giving any warning to the people who lived there. Marcie, Robbie, and Pauline sat in stunned silence. There was nothing to say. After a long while, the shaking stopped.

Jacqui Burke is a freelance director, writer, and theatrical teacher living in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. She is currently directing Wrong for Each Other for Encore Productions opening in April, Kidsplay 2012: The Mayan Prediction opening in June, and The Last Five Years for TOKL Productions opening in July. She is, also, serializing The Pretender, her first novel, online at http://thepretender-amarcienoelnovel.blogspot.ca/. She is preparing for two Shakespeare is Boffo! summer camp sessions for 2012.

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The Pretender - Chapter 6

2012-04-14T07:46:00.001-07:00

Sunday, July 11, 2083. 8:00 a.m.

Marcie walked briskly along the Promenade feeling a little at a loss for what to do. Robbie had given her an order to sleep in and take it easy. She’d been pushing herself hard; working all day on the training of the Eastdown team and then all evening on programming, barely getting seven hours sleep before she started the whole process again, but she wasn’t weary. She took the time because she wanted to think. She knew she was still not totally committed to this enterprise, still not sure she was doing the right thing. Despite all the years of karate, violence was not in her nature. She watched the citizens of Origin go about their business as she walked. What do I really have in common with these people anyway?

She went to the Flip Side for a late breakfast. As she arrived, she found it busy, but she was able to snag a table on the patio. She’d never really taken the time to watch Origin life as it happened, relying heavily on the early Reels scanned quickly over breakfast, or moments witnessed in passing as she hurried from one class to another. She sighed and sat back. Her waitress brought her coffee right away. Good lass!

She sipped her coffee and looked out. No one was running but, unlike a sapiens city, these people all moved with a purpose. Small stalls were opening all along the other side of the street, and beautiful shops they were. A textile shop was displaying richly coloured materials. Next door, a sculptor showed his wares while working on his current piece. Somewhere, perhaps on a balcony above, someone was playing the violin. Despite the parochial nature of life here at Origin, its citizens were obviously artistic, well-educated, and eloquent; aware of the world outside and participating, in their own way, in Outside ideas and trends. In short, for a community of only fifteen thousand people, Marcie didn’t feel like she was living in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of hicks. A high percentage of people living in Origin were artists: painters, potters, sculptors, and weavers and, as a result, many of the finer things in life didn’t have to be imported. They could be had straight from the artists’ shops on the Promenade.

Her breakfast came. Marcie tended to order the special and, though she had no idea what many of the dishes were, she was rarely disappointed. This morning, the dish was a plate of light crepes rolled with a kind of humus paste and eggs inside. Very tasty.

Marcie loved food in Origin. They didn’t eat much red meat, mostly due to the fuss and mess of keeping that many cattle and sheep and, as an extra plus, the cooking was influenced by eastern traditions. There was no pot roast to be found and no Yorkshire pudding. Robbie, who liked his beef, was trying not to complain too much, and Marcie was trying not to gorge herself too much, at least when he was around. Today, this was not a problem. She was just cleaning her plate when a young girl came up to her table.

“Excuse me, Ms. Noel. I was wondering if you would write a note in my scrapbook.”

Marcie looked at her, surprised. The girl still had that coltish awkwardness of a young teenager. She offered a large keepsake book, stuffed with photos, leaves, and other mementos. Marcie took the book and felt a wave of nostalgia. She’d had something similar when she was a girl.

“Call me Marcie.” The girl looked thrilled. “What would you like me to say?”

“Whatever comes to mind, Marcie. I’d appreciate it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Kim.”

“Okay, Kim.”

Marcie looked over and saw the girl’s parents watching from another table, obviously proud of their daughter’s pluck. Marcie had no idea that anyone needed any pluck to approach her. She blinked. She took up the pen and looked down. Staring back at her was a blank page of homemade paper that had bits of glitter in it, very similar to the paper she had made for her own keepsake book so many years ago. She paused and thought for a moment, and then she wrote:

‘Dear Kim: I’ve been in Origin now for only a few days and I find it a beautiful place, full of happy and interesting people. I wish you just that: beauty, happiness, and interesting people and things in your life. Good luck to you. Marcie Noel.’

Marcie handed back the pen and the book. Kim thanked her and moved away without even reading the message. She sat down with her parents, looking a little flushed and pleased.

Marcie had never been a celebrity, certainly never a role model. She suddenly realized that her connection to these people was profound. She would have said that it was almost ironic that she was here: a wolf amongst the lambs, a pretender to the birthright. But these people believed in her. Believed she could lead them. Believed somehow she could save them.

She finished her breakfast and nodded to Kim on her way out, wishing the whole family a good day. She walked down the Promenade slowly, fingering silks, inspecting pots. She wasn’t really much of a shopper. She didn’t want anything but a good pair of socks, which she found, but she was actually more interested in watching people and how they interacted. These were polite and soft-spoken folk, who were quick to laugh. But soon, Marcie realized her very presence was having an effect on their behaviour. Once they recognized her, she was treated with an extra deference and respect. It dawned on her that this walk down the Promenade was being recorded and would be in the Reels.

So, she gave up on the Promenade and walked to the parkland surrounding the Sports Complex. Robbie had made her swear that she wouldn’t go near the place, but she wanted to find a tree, sit under it, and think. She settled down cross-legged in the perfect spot on some grass just off the Promenade, with a good view of the traffic on the main road, and watched the world, as small as it was here, go by.

Very soon, a little child came up to her with a card in his hand. His mother wasn’t far away and he ran back to her the moment Marcie accepted the offering. The front of the card was decorated with stick figures and inside were scribbles incomprehensible to Marcie, but she smiled warmly and waved when the boy peeked at her from behind his mum.

Word must have got out. Maybe she was already in the Reels? Soon there was a line up, mostly of children, but of some adults too. Some carried little tokens and notepads. Some simply wanted to have a word with her. Perhaps it was the personal nature of the Reels but all of them acted like they knew her, like she was part of their family, like they could be open with her. Marcie didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or honoured. She chose to accept each offering for what it was: a gift. She was late for her call at noon.

Tuesday, July 13, 2083. 6:28 p.m.

A few days later, Marcie toyed with the enter key as she assessed the program she’d written. It looked solid; it was time to let it loose on an unsuspecting Internet.

The last week had been hard work. The program was much more complex than she’d first imagined; in part, because she had to synchronize the time of the attack and she couldn’t rely on the settings on the host computers. So, the program had its own internal clock that confirmed time with Greenwich Mean immediately upon download and this was a lot riskier – quite a few virus scanners monitored systems for that kind of activity. But there were ways and ways around everything. The program was just a little bit bigger than she’d previously thought it would be, and the project a little more difficult. Well, that’s how opening your mouth got you in trouble, as her mum would say.

Luckily, the Comm Team was fantastic. Lee, Talla, Carmen, and Brett all seemed to understand her intentions quickly, and all seemed to enjoy working out their own solutions to their problems. Marcie was used to having to come up with the answers herself. It was gratifying to have a team that she could rely on, a team she could leave alone. Just like at the office. Hey, Tracy has auburn hair. Just how many of us are there?

She hit enter and sat back. The email was away. She’d listed the ‘from’ as the very generic name of John and she included a really good joke in the body of the email. This email was sent to a list of a million viable email addresses and would be delivered in less than an hour. Who knew what percentage would forward the joke to their friends but, certainly, it would take a few days to infect enough computers. She took a moment to set up a tracer that would follow the email as it travelled around the world and keep track of the number of computers infected. She started the tracer and then she got up and left the room. She’d check back in a few hours.

She went down to one of the lecture halls they had commandeered in the Sports Complex for the duration of Project Eastdown. Stellan was there talking to the team leaders. They all turned and looked at her expectantly when she entered the room.

“It’s away,” she said simply.

“Fine, so we go in forty-eight hours,” said Stellan.

“No,” she replied. “We hit in forty-eight hours.”

Stellan looked a bit sheepish. “Yes. I see.”

Marcie turned to the team leaders. “We all need a good night’s sleep tonight. Then, tomorrow, review and light exercises. Another good night’s sleep and we get ready to go. All right?” Nods all around. “Karen, your teams will be under the most stress during this time. Do you feel you’re all ready?”

“Absolutely.” Marcie was impressed. Karen seemed certain.

“All right. Of course, just shout if you need more people. Questions? None? Okay, good night, all. Robbie, can you wait up a moment?”

“Sure.”

“Dr. Stellan, just one question. How many of us are there outside?”

Stellan paused and thought for a moment. “Well, people have been leaving Origin for about a fifty years. There may be thousands of us out there.”

“Right. Most in North America?”

“I would assume so, but who knows? By definition, these people are rolling stones.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Are you worried that we’ll go up against some of our own?”

“Not really. But if they’re out there and on the other side, it’ll make our job more difficult because we won’t have the natural edge we have over sapiens. I’d be surprised to meet many of us defending the complex, though.”

“I would, too. We are a peaceful people.”

“All right, good night, Doctor.”

“Good night.” Stellan nodded and left. Marcie turned back and smiled at Robbie. “What’s up, sugar?”

“Want some dinner?”

“Sure.”

They decided on an Indian-style place. They sat near the back, away from the activity on The Promenade. After ordering, the waitress took their menus and left. Robbie turned to look squarely at Marcie.

“Okay, what’s up, sugar?”

Marcie smiled. “What? Is it written on my forehead?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, it is. So shoot.”

“All right. It doesn’t make any sense that I’m the one leading this team. I don’t have any strike force experience. Really, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“No, you don’t. You’re right. You’re not qualified to lead the strike force. That’s why I’m leading the strike force and you’re in charge of the communication. That’s how we always play it.”

“I would be happier if….”

“Well, I won’t do this any other way. You can’t go in with us, Marcie, no matter how hard you try and if you do try, the whole thing will fail because I won’t be going in either; I’ll be sitting on you.”

Marcie was silent. She hadn’t realized until he spoke that she really did want to be on the team going into the Eastdown complex. She wanted to have the satisfaction of physically rescuing those people and she knew she would’ve been a real asset to the strike team, but she accepted his opinion. He wouldn’t hold her back unless he had good reason. She changed the subject and they chatted while they ate their meal. Robbie was in good form, telling her a story about one of the recruits trying to figure out what to do with a jock strap – athletes in Origin practice and compete in the nude – especially since the recruit was a girl. The food was fantastic and Marcie had a good time. It almost made her forget the whole business.

When she got back to the suite, she decided she needed to meditate for a while. She had to be certain that she would sleep and sleep well. She changed into a light shift and sat cross-legged on the floor beside her bed. The décor in the room was spartan and Marcie had done nothing to pretty it up because she simply hadn’t the time. So, she was able to stare at a blank wall and really clear her mind. She adjusted her breathing and worked through her relaxation exercises. Fifteen minutes later, she was completely relaxed and ready for sleep. She crawled into bed, fell asleep immediately, and didn’t wake until morning.

Wednesday, July 14, 2083. 6:45 a.m.

Norman Li walked down the main corridor at Eastdown. He liked the place early in the morning because it was still quiet. The only doctor usually in at this time was Ryan, and it had been Li’s custom to have a cup of coffee with Ryan every few days – a great time for a meeting – but, today, he didn’t go to the Administrator's Office. He had a message to relay. He went down the back halls to the kitchen.

In stark contrast to the rest of the complex, the kitchen was all hustle and bustle. Norman fingered the small slip of paper, like a fortune from a fortune cookie, hidden in his pocket. It was destined for Helen Pearce. He planned to slip it in her porridge as he inspected food trays. This standard inspection was a remarkable opportunity to pass information on, something he would never have dreamed of doing even a few weeks ago.

He walked into the serving area in the kitchen and did his usual checks. He pulled out five trays, seemingly at random, and used a fork to push the food around. During this process, he managed to slip the paper onto Pearce’s bowl and then continue with the inspection. A few moments later, Li noticed that the kitchen had gone uncharacteristically quiet. He straightened up slowly, leaving his hands in clear view. He had to be careful. He turned around.

The kitchen staff had disappeared and in their place was Dr. Ryan standing by a prep table with two security personnel Li didn’t recognise and that thug, Welsh. The security men were training hand pistols at him. Li wasn’t worried. He wasn’t planning to run. Welsh had such a satisfied look on his face that it gave Norman pause. Oh, he’s going to get my job. God help these people. Norman raised his hands slowly to show that he would not fight. He didn’t want the world to think him a traitor. Instead, he wanted the world to know what was going on in Eastdown, and he would use the court martial as an opportunity to tell his story. Command would believe him, or they wouldn’t, and if they did, something might get done about this place.

“Norman, Norman.” Ryan was shaking his head.

Ryan looked shocked, numbed by Norman’s betrayal, and Norman felt bad. He’d really liked Ryan in the early days. Ryan was a hard worker, just like himself, and he was respectful of security procedures and concerns. He didn’t mess with the staff or breach security protocols when it was convenient. Lawrence and Norman had been friends. Coffee at seven every few days.

“Sir.”

“Come on, Norman. Let’s see what you put in that woman’s bowl, hmmmm?”

Norman stepped back to allow Ryan access. Ryan pulled Helen’s tray out of the warming cart himself, wincing a little at the heat. He placed the tray on the counter, picked up a knife that was handy. He pushed the porridge around. The note was easy to find.

“Norman, Norman.”

Norman looked at Ryan. Ryan’s face was ashen, his head down, his eyes glazed. Norman was surprised at how disappointed Ryan seemed. Ryan looked rocked to the core.

“Why, Norman?”

“You have to stop all this torture, Dr. Ryan. These people have suffered enough.”

“You have forgotten our mission, Norman.”

“No.”

“You forget what’s at stake.”

“No.”

“Humankind will not lose to a group of upstart, genetically-engineered monsters.”

“If you continue with what you’re doing, humankind will lose because we will have lost our humanity.”

“Ah. Nobility, Norman. How quaint.”

He will never stop this insanity. Norman sighed. The betrayal of Ryan had been difficult for him because he considered the man to be his friend. He was trying to help the Subjects, yes, but he’d also wanted to save his friend from himself.

“You’re going to have to tell me everything, Norman.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Oh, Norman. Bring him.”

They went back to the main corridor and turned down the hallway leading to the testing rooms. Ryan led them to Testing Room 8 and disappeared through the doorway.

Wednesday, July 14, 2083. 7:10 a.m.

Helen Pearce pushed her body up from the floor. One fifty-eight, one fifty-nine. She pushed up again. The workouts were doing her some good. At the very least, she no longer felt dull and logy anymore. She’d started to feel invigorated, more like her old self before she came to this place, but she wished that the reason she’d begun the exercise sessions didn’t exist. A few weeks earlier, the intensity of testing had picked up and so, too, had the screams and cries of pain and discomfort from the testing rooms. At first, the noise had made her pace her cell, as if her body wanted her to go to the aid of the victims. Later, feeling as if she were going insane, she had begun to exercise. Suddenly, she heard a gut-wrenching scream. Man, they started early this morning. And then, another yell from down the hall. There was anger in these cries. The Subject hadn’t broken yet. Just keep counting: One sixty-one, one sixty-two.

She was startled from her concentration by banging on the door. She hopped up to her feet and stood waiting. Why do they bother knocking? Since there was a security camera on her at all times with no allowance for privacy, the guards may as well have just walked in without warning.

Two men came into her cell, grabbed her roughly by the arms, and dragged her out of her cell, like some life-sized rag doll. She’d begun to think of this whole exercise as a game, a charade, as a way for the guards to show their superiors, watching on the cameras, that they were doing their jobs. Helen Pearce didn’t really matter – they would have treated anyone the same. But there lay the conundrum of the place. In order to survive, these men had to run around pretending not to care. When did their inhumane ‘act’ become reality? At what point did they stop caring about anything but themselves?

The guards half dragged her down the hallway to the testing rooms. What am I in for today? They stopped at one of the Psych rooms, but she no longer viewed these rooms as havens. They were just as bad as any of the others. The guards opened the door and pushed her in.

She stumbled as she crossed the threshold because of the shove from behind, but she righted herself quickly hoping that, at least, she could maintain her dignity. She looked up. Oh, great. Dr. Lawrence Ryan, her worst nightmare, was standing behind a small table, mask firmly in place, his eyes in shadow from the one overhead light, the rest of the room in darkness. She walked over to the table and saw it was bare except for a little piece of paper that looked like a fortune from a fortune cookie. Helen’s heart sank. She wondered if, at least, he’d let her read it. He gestured that she should sit. Helen had no choice. She sat down.

“You can leave us alone.”

The two guards left the room and shut the door behind them.

“Surveillance off,” said Ryan clearly.

Ryan sat down. He looked at her with those hard, hazel eyes for a long while. Helen kept her face passive, her back straight, her hands folded demurely on her lap. Finally, Ryan moved. He lifted his hand and Helen almost flinched, but instead of doing anything to her, he pulled away his mask.

He was not unattractive. He had a strong jaw and a thin nose.

“Your friends are coming for you, Ms. Pearce.” He pushed the little paper toward her. Helen stayed silent, but she looked hard at the paper to see what it said: ‘Fear not. We come.’

Ryan continued in a matter-of-fact voice that Helen found chilling. “But they will fail. However, just in case, I’ve decided to evacuate key staff for a few days and to be doubly sure I’ve requested military backup: two platoons of Canada’s finest. So, your friends don’t know what’s going to hit them. On the odd chance their attack is successful, I can’t have them taking you, so you will come with me along with one other key prisoner. Not that I’m worried. They won’t be prepared for professional soldiers and most of them will die except the few who will tell me where their base is.”

He pushed his chair back, stood, and started to walk around the table. His tone changed: “Sad, really, isn’t it? And it’s all because they found out about you. Now what about you would motivate them, hmmmm? Your obvious charms, perhaps?” He stopped behind her and gently touched her head. Helen shied slightly and relaxed as soon as she understood he wasn’t hurting her, but she was too late. She had betrayed her fear. Ryan smiled coldly. Then, he tapped his neck under his right ear and spoke: “Jake. Send in our friend, would you?”

Ryan stepped around Helen and suddenly crouched beside her chair, trying to catch her gaze, but she kept her eyes straight ahead, not looking at him.

“Do you know why you’re here, Helen? May I call you Helen?” He waited, but she refused to answer. “You’re here because you’re not human, well, not homo sapiens at any rate.” He waited again, but she did her best to control herself. Not homo sapiens? “And, even amongst your own kind, you’re unique.” What is he talking about? Still, she refused to look at him. “You make a correct guess ninety-seven percent of the time. Ninety-seven. That’s practically always. Your species, on average, guesses things right more often than sapiens, about sixty percent of the time, but you, you guess the right answer almost all the time. I would call it a miracle, but I can’t. And apparently, your friends can’t either. They know what you can do, and they want you to perform your tricks for them. So, don’t think you’re special because somebody out there loves you. You’re nothing without this ability. They would’ve let you rot in here, like they left a few hundred others, if you were just an average member of your species. They are cowards. Nothing. I can’t leave you in the hands of those people.”

He stood and walked back to the other side of the table. “So, you won’t be here when they come, because my guess is they’re coming for you. And after we slaughter most of them, we will find out from one of the survivors where their base is.” Helen could see her knuckles were white; she was gripping the chair so hard. She forced herself to relax her hands. She said nothing. What is this? Some kind of sick test? She heard the door open behind her and heard the footfalls of people walking into the room, but she did not turn to look. “You, my lucky one, will come with me, to my own home, where we’ll wait out the attack. And, where you’ll begin to learn that there is no one you can trust more than me. No one. And then you’ll begin to help me with what I need to do.”

It was time to speak. “I will never help you.” She was surprised how even her voice sounded.

“Oh, I think you will.” He gestured for someone to come forward.

And, suddenly, there was Greg. He looked a little worn out, but otherwise fine. He was nodding slightly as he always did when he was trying to reassure her. She felt a surge of emotion welling up from her chest, but almost immediately, she began to control it. Too late. Ryan was smiling. He knew he had her.

“So, let’s start, shall we?” Helen looked at him. “I want you to just answer naturally, like you do with the cards. Don’t think too much about it.”

Helen looked at Greg. He shook his head, ever so slightly. She held his eyes, but she couldn’t do as he wanted. Greg didn’t know what he was up against. She did. Ryan was right in one way. She already trusted him, his cruelty at least. She looked back to Ryan and nodded. He smiled.

“Will they attack or try to sneak you out?”

“Attack.”

“Will they come today or tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Good. We’ll certainly be ready for them.” He turned away abruptly, done with her for the time being. “Transport them to the facility at my residence immediately.”

He pulled his facemask on once more and strode from the room. Helen watched him go silently. She decided she liked him better with his mask on.

Thursday, July 15, 2083. 1:00 p.m.

About a half hour to take off, the team assembled in the various barns of the old farm on the surface above Origin. Marcie finally came up after tying up some loose ends and having performed a last minute check on her virus. Over the previous day and a half, it had spread, slowly at first, and then picked up speed at an amazing pace. Her tracker reported that the virus had infected a few hundred million computers in approximately forty hours. By the time they got to Newmarket, that figure could double. Perfect.

When Marcie was ready to go, there were few vehicles left. The supply team had started leaving as much as twenty-four hours before to obtain all the materials they would need and the strike team had been leaving all day. Marcie stood beside Robbie as they waited for a few PAs to back out of the barn.

“Look at that, sugar.”

She turned to him and saw that he was staring at the ceiling. “What’s up, Robbie?”

“Ha, ha.” They were silent for a moment, looking at beams of light streaming through chinks in the barn boards. “It’s the sun, creepin’ through the cracks. It’s something you don’t get down below, huh? Something they never see.”

Marcie smiled. Robbie the Philosopher. “No, they never do.”

“It always finds a way in, though.”

“What’s that?”

“The light.” He smiled. He was being reassuring. She smiled back at him but wasn’t sure she shared his optimism. Something was bothering her. Something was still missing from the puzzle and, though essentially she trusted Stellan, he was still a politician. It was their turn to go.

Robbie and Marcie hopped in their assigned PA, drove out of the barn, and Robbie took off without clearance from Control. He executed the first of what would be a series of untraceable short hops to Chicago, where Robbie would power down, reset, and restart. Then, they would run through a standard clearance procedure and make the final jump to Toronto; Origin’s location couldn’t be traced. They flew for hours on the slower local height streams. Marcie actually enjoyed the ride – no steep climbs or descents – but as they approached Chicago, they put the PA down in a remote suburb, re-adjusted the start-up to automatic, shut down, and then re-booted the PA. He said the word ‘Toronto’ clearly and the PA took over, guided both by its own systems and Control.

While the PA flew itself, they sat back and chatted about nothing. They arrived without incident two hours later and set down on a public landing pad just long enough to power down, reset and reboot the PA, and then do a manual merge into the slow lanes flying north. They came down in the borough of Newmarket after about fifteen minutes of flight. Even without the auto-nav, they found the rendezvous warehouse relatively easily because a huge blue cross had been painted on the roof. This warehouse was as large as a jetball field, but this stat wasn’t impressive; the building looked like many others in the area. Robbie landed the PA on the pad on the roof and they took the service elevator down to the ground floor.

As the elevator descended, Marcie surveyed the small fleet. Four PAs would carry two crew each, drop a bomb on cue at the beginning of the attack, defend as necessary during the attack, and pick up soldiers or freed prisoners at the end. Three vehicle carriers would transport the frontal assault team. Each carrier had a crew of four and held one attack humvee and with ten infantry besides. Each humvee had a crew of two. These thirty-six people would launch the dummy frontal assault. There was also one troop carrier that would hold the whole of the twelve members of the Release team, the two members of the Computer team, as well as two medical staff and four beds for ill prisoners. And, last but not least, the Command Vehicle with two pilots, four staff, and Marcie. A total of seventy-nine people on the Strike Team, not including the few hundred staff both in Ontario and in Origin who had made the preparations for the Strike and were readying for the return of the prisoners.

The warehouse was a hive of activity, but without the general buzz of conversation that Marcie was used to in large groups of sapiens. They were greeted at the elevator by one of Karen’s team who directed them to a large changing area. They checked in at a table and were each given a pack with their names on it. There was one changeroom for both the men and the women, so Marcie and Robbie sat down to dress together.

“Warriors all, I guess.”

“Yeah,” replied Robbie. “You could prance about here in the altogether right now and I probably wouldn’t notice.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Robbie laughed.

Marcie’s kit was small, just some clothes and some electronics. Robbie’s pack was extensive, however: automatic rifle; machine gun; small laser pistol, the latest in personal weapons; some hand grenades; including three Automatic Detonation Bombs, or ADBs, that could be programmed to go off at various times in three different striation modes; clothes, helmet, watch, canteen and more.

“How will you carry all that stuff?”

Robbie gave a wry smile. “That’s always the question, isn’t it?” And then, Robbie pulled out the only piece of equipment that the two shared: A communication headset. “This is my umbilical to you, sugar. You’re gonna show me the way.”

Marcie smiled. She didn’t really understand what she did next, but she did it and she meant it. She held his face in both of her hands, and then she kissed him hard on the lips. She pulled away quickly and shook out the green shirt she’d been issued, trying not to think about what she’d just done.

“Maybe I should insult you more often.”

She smiled, but felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. They should have their minds on other things except, of course, this was the only thing that really mattered. She decided to ignore him, shucked off her shirt, and pulled on the green turtleneck she’d been issued. They dressed in silence. Marcie was done first and helped Robbie with his belt pack and the crossband that carried extra ammunition, grenades, and ADBs.

They left the changing area together. Marcie could see the command centre as they got to the aisle. She turned to go to it, but stopped because Robbie grabbed her hand. He switched off his head commset to make sure they had privacy. She did the same.

“If it all goes wrong, sugar, if everything goes bad, give the word and go. Don’t worry about me, okay?” Is something bothering him, too?

“I’m responsible for all those under my command, you or anyone. I wouldn’t just abandon you.” She believed it. Every word.

He smiled and then he let her hand go and turned away. Marcie couldn’t watch him go. She switched on her comm unit immediately and turned away herself. She wanted to get into the command vehicle to confirm the time and check on the status of the virus that she’d sent out a few nights before.

The command vehicle was a vacation RV designed for a family of four. Not so big to be alarming and not too small either. Karen’s team had gutted it and re-installed all the necessary equipment including an extensive arsenal and four battle stations – turret rooms, they’d begun to call them. The command centre was laid out exactly as they had planned it. Marcie knew where her seat was without anyone telling her.

“Hello, all.” She said, as she stepped into the plane. She kept her tone light.

“Ma’am,” came the formal reply from around her. She was going to have to talk to these people about calling her ma’am, but she would wait until after they returned.

She sat down and powered up the three computers and six vidscreens she would be using personally. From her ops computer, she logged onto the Internet immediately. As it was making the connection, she also logged onto the two other computers that would act primarily as external monitors.

At her ops machine, she called up the tracer program after first checking for a tracer on the tracer. Was anyone watching? Apparently not. The tracer reported that the virus had been more successful than she had originally hoped – a half billion machines infected – and that the virus continued to spread at an exponential rate. By the time they struck, only minutes away, the total could possibly be a billion. Marcie sat back and wondered, for a moment, just how many personal computers there were out there. At any rate, it would be enough for what she needed to do. She checked her watch and went to pour herself a cup of fresh coffee. She returned to her chair and tried to relax while she printed out a timeline, four maps, a list of local comm codes, and the master checklist. She logged onto a military site to confirm Greenwich Mean to which she synchronized her command computer. Then, she ran through a systematic check of all her vidscreens, remote cams, and other periphery equipment.

She took care with her radio set up. She had three states: pre-attack, when all channels were open to all; attack, when every team and subteam – eighteen in all – had their own isolated channel; and emergency, on which Marcie could also monitor the radio traffic of the local law enforcement agencies. All was working. She had eight minutes to spare. She spent two minutes setting three alarms: Deployment, Attack, and Bug Out. Then, she downed her coffee, went to the bathroom, and poured herself another on the way back. At the appointed time, she started her global check sequence.

“All team leaders check in, please.”

“Topaz Leader, here.”

As each leader confirmed attendance and readiness, Marcie checked them off manually on a paper list. Quaint, yes, but also foolproof – at least for Marcie.

“Team leaders, confirm staff, please.”

Again, as the team leaders confirmed that their group ready to go, Marcie checked them off. There was a small problem with Hephaestus (the frontal assault) Team, but they were able to confirm readiness by the time she cycled back to them. Marcie continued down the global checklist until it was done.

“Time to deployment: six minutes. Please start vehicles and idle. Gold Leader, initiate Launch Doors, please.”

“Initiating,” came the immediate response. Marcie was feeling confident in their plan and their team. Every member had the timeline memorized. She could rely on each to do his or her part without her having to order it. This was freedom.

From above, Marcie could hear the low level grinding of gears and hydraulics as a large hatch opened in the roof. The launch sequence was set; all Marcie had to do was give the go ahead. Marcie watched the clock. She shifted her view to the overhead cams on the RV, so she could monitor the lift off and then she spent the intervening few minutes breathing deeply to settle her nerves. At exactly six twenty-five, her ops computer beeped its first alarm and Marcie gave the command to go.

The PAs went first. They rose and hovered like bees and then disappeared through the launch doors seemingly at random, although Marcie knew that their flight plans were locked in. Next, the medium-sized vehicles: the command centre and the one troop carrier flew a little more slowly out of the warehouse. As they emerged into a sunny evening, Marcie checked her undercams and watched the three vehicle carriers as they lifted off as scheduled, following them out.

“Local forces?” Marcie was asking Talla, her external communications monitor, if their lift-off had been noticed.

“As expected. No mention.” Talla’s voice was certain. No forces alerted or dispatched.

Good. “All clear as of lift-off,” she informed the rest. “All clear.”

Marcie sat back and waited. The flight to Eastdown was less than five minutes due south. Though the sky was clear and everything was moving as it should, Marcie suddenly felt anxious. She started checking the various cams and monitors at her disposal including her proximity alert, scanning the skies for any sign of pursuit. Nothing. So, what is bothering me? Her job, up to and including the Attack Point, was to call off the operation, if necessary, and she was feeling edgy and worried. She was looking for any excuse to call an Abort.

Nothing happened as they advanced on Eastdown. Marcie could see no reason to call off the operation, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she should. She must act. She made a decision.

“Hephaestus, be wary, no indications. All teams: Condition Yellow. Repeat Condition Yellow.” She was sure something was wrong; she just didn’t know what it was and she may as well let everybody in on her hunch. Under this condition, anyone, including the guy who rolled bandages, could sound an Abort – the rationale being that a counter-indication could come from the most unlikely of sources.

They were flying well, not in formation but clearly together. They looked like an extended family group on vacation. The skies were clear of other traffic. There was nothing to fear. So, why? Her computer beeped. She quickly double-checked the time and their location.

“Attack Point reached. Go ahead. Attack Point reached. We are going ahead.”

Thursday, July 15, 2083. 6:30 p.m.

The clock ticked over ten-thirty p.m. Greenwich Mean Time and well over a half billion computers attacked the Eastdown security system, all at once. Because of Internet traffic congestion and the restraints of the cables going into the complex only a few million a second got through, but it was enough to shut down the internal workings of the Eastdown computers completely as the system dropped everything to defend itself. Nothing would be apparent to security staff, however, unless they tried to change something: Like raising the parking lot barrier, switching out lights, or shifting security readiness from daytime to night time.

At six thirty, the evening shift should have taken over, with the day staff long gone. According to their intelligence, and this is what the Origin force expected, a company of twelve civilian security guards patrolled the facility in the evening, relying heavily on early warnings from the intricate surveillance system that watched every square inch of the compound, both inside and out. Of course, this evening, the system would be otherwise occupied.

About thirty seconds after the computer attacks began, four Origin vehicles landed on the Eastdown grounds. Three carriers landed on the lawns at the front of the building and three humvees emerged immediately with the troop compliments in their wake. The troop carrier touched down in the gardens, spoiling the central flowerbeds, and the Release Team came out in a tight group that moved quickly toward the side door. No alarm sounded and there was no obvious response from the building. The virus is working.

“No alarm. Bombs drop, go.” Marcie felt like she was watching twenty vidscreens at once, but at least she could see and assess just about everything. Her voice was clear and confident. She was in her element. In response to her command, seven vehicles dropped low-level explosives, more boom than bite, onto the grounds at Eastdown and one AP dropped the large bomb, all bite, that would destroy the power plant.

Marcie saw both the frontal attack and release team ground troops reach their marks. The frontal group was taking up position near the main entrance of the building. The release team was approaching the side entrance to the building through the gardens.

Just as Robbie placed a small bomb on the door mechanism, the power plant blew. Marcie wasn’t expecting the force of the blast. Even the command vehicle shuddered with the explosion. She could see that a few of the soldiers on the ground had fallen. She switched to Robbie’s channel to check all was well. Robbie was calling to his novice fighting force to get them on their feet.

“Blow the door, Robbie. Time, time.” Marcie stole a glance at the countdown to Bug Out. Only four minutes left. She turned back to her vidscreens and saw a small blast and the door pop open. Her force would be inside in seconds. The fake frontal assault had begun, with soldiers lobbing low-level ADBs and firing wildly at the building. Marcie hoped there were enough diversions to keep most of her people alive. There was no sign of response yet. She didn’t know if that was a bad sign, or good.

Robbie disappeared into the building with his team. Marcie could no longer easily see what was happening though the soldiers all had cameras on their helmets. In combat, the pictures were usually too jerky for a co-ordinator to make head nor tail of. What did help Marcie were the sensors built into the watches and clothing of the soldiers. Data was constantly streaming in and was being processed by Brett, a computer whiz working on her team. Brett was already running programs to graphically represent the data, so Marcie could understand what she was looking at. The graphs were displayed on her vidscreens almost immediately. She could see her team as green dots showing on a map of the complex. There was a cluster of dots outside by the front door and some moving in the humvees. She could see the Release team moving in the building. Other bodies, enemy forces or prisoners, identified only by body heat sensors, would show up as red dots. Marcie scanned the map for red dots. Nothing yet. The team needed to be closer for their scanners to pick up the information.

Hephaestus Team split into three groups as they entered the building. The Computer Group went to the administrative offices to steal hard drives. The Release Group, led by Robbie, would get as many victims out as possible. A Patrol Group of two soldiers took up a position at the intersection of two main corridors to watch out for opposing forces and defend as necessary.

“Release Group, I have three people in cells but about twenty warm bodies down at the end of the cell corridor in the larger room – some kind of holding cell? Start there.”

“Got it.”

Marcie noticed two red dots moving quickly down the corridor toward the release team. “Robbie as you come around that corner….”

“On it.” Robbie’s voice had changed a little. He sounded harder, more focused than she’d ever heard him. There were two short bursts of gunfire. The two red dots stopped moving.

Marcie could see more warm bodies in the offices. “Computer Group, you have company waiting in the outer office. Two targets.”

“Two. Okay,” said Trent Poole. A few moments later, he whispered: “Computer group calling door check.”

“Correct door,” Marcie said.

Marcie kept her channels open, so she could monitor what was going on. Trent was talking, or rather whispering, to Drew Carter, his partner.

“They’re right there waiting for us. If we go in, we’ll get shot.”

“What about a flash ADB?” Drew sounded uncertain of himself. “Would that work? It won’t do too much damage and it’ll leave them blind.”

“Great idea.”

A few seconds later, Marcie heard the sound of a muffled explosion and Trent was saying, “Go, go, go.” Then, some sounds of gunfire. Marcie could barely sit in her seat.

“Office, clear.” Trent was sounding subdued. Marcie started breathing again.

She watched her screens intently. A few seconds later, the Release Group arrived at the holding cell.

“Release calling Door check.” Robbie’s voice was terse.

“Correct door,” Marcie said clearly.

“Sure?” came the answer back. “The door doesn’t seem to be locked.”

A trap! Marcie yelled “Get out!” just as a massive amount of gunfire sounded.

Robbie was shouting: “Fallback! Fallback!”

Before her eyes, Marcie could see members of her team scattering and some dying. Marcie got a hold of herself and said clearly “Bug out. Repeat: Bug Out. All teams leave immediately. Bug Out.” She watched as the red dots in the holding cell, at first, surged forward and out into the hallway after her retreating force, and then, stopped moving one by one. She watched the dots in the other cells carefully, but none emerged – these were probably actual prisoners.

Some curses came back. She heard Trent on the Computer team yell “Okay take whole box, let’s go.”

Marcie was relieved to hear Robbie’s voice: “I need a check on Helen Pearce.” One of their primary goals was to release Helen Pearce. Stellan had not been clear why, but he had made it plain that it was not only because the girl was his niece. Marcie checked her cell.

“Someone’s in her cell, Robbie, but who?”

“I’ll go see.”

“It’s Bug Out, Robbie.”

“Don’t worry sugar, it’s on my way.”

A few moments passed in which Marcie studied her troop screen carefully. Four were dead. If any were hurt, Marcie couldn’t tell from the readings.

“Door check.” Robbie again.

“Correct door.” She heard the door blow immediately.

“Come on, come on.” Robbie was talking to someone else. “Sugar, one occupant, male. Could be one of us; so we’re bringing him along. Bugging out.” Well, maybe we saved one guy, anyway.

Then, Marcie noticed a surge of new red dots, soldiers probably, coming up from a lower level. A large compliment moved toward the front of the building and a group of twenty dots headed toward the back. As she scanned her external cams, she also saw a force of ten jeeps coming in from the road. Too many. She spoke immediately.

“Bug out Manoeuvre C. Manoeuvre Charlie. Charlie Bug Out. Enemy re-enforcements on their way, from inside and outside. Gold group lay down covering fire to block the front entrance. Keep those troops inside the building. Silver group take out the jeeps coming in from the north. Ground troops, I repeat: bug out Charlie.”

The external scenes became battle zones, with ADBs dropping everywhere. The advance of the jeep force was slowed significantly and the troops attempting to come out of the building were stopped at the doors. On the inside monitors, Marcie watched as her people immediately turned away from the predetermined exit and headed instead for the closest doors. “Gold and Silver, they’re coming out. Break off and pick up.” Marcie switched back to her many cams and watched the Computer Team burst out a crash door into the gardens. Seconds later, she saw Robbie and his teammates come out another crash door on the other side of the building, with one man Marcie did not recognize but who could have been Robbie’s brother, they looked so much alike – the freed prisoner. PAs started diving in to pick people up.

The Frontal assault team was trying to fall back but with the lack of covering fire, the enemy troops were making this difficult. An ADB exploded over the heads of a group of five of their force and three of the team died, just as the vehicle carriers touched down to pick up whoever was left.

Seven members of the original twelve on the Release Team were still moving. Of those seven, only six made it into a plane, including the Computer Team who hopped into the back of a hovering PA, throwing an armful of equipment as they went. Two humvees made it back to the vehicle carriers and then turned and laid out covering fire for the retreating troops. One humvee was cut off by four enemy jeeps and was fighting to get to its carrier. The frontal assault forces took a beating as they fell back, covering fire or no. Well over half of them were down by the time they got to their carriers.

“Marcie,” Robbie voice was hoarse and he was breathing heavily. “Charlie Bug Out means you go too. Go now. You can’t do anything.”

“One sec. Talla, target sector four, with a tight but full blast ADB.” She wanted to help that stranded humvee.

“Targetted.”

“Fire.” The bomb dropped and exploded a few seconds later, hopefully disabling a few jeeps and giving the humvee a fighting chance, but Marcie did not wait around to see. She switched channels and said, “Away, Howard,” to the pilot of her van. The vehicle surged up and out just in time for Marcie to see a small cloud of military vehicles approaching from the east on her forward monitor. Damn!

“Incoming. Incoming,” said Marcie. “Delta Bug Out. Delta. Delta Bug Out.”

Delta Bug Out required that all vehicles move whether they had all their passengers or not. The four vehicles on the ground lifted immediately. Only the one humvee was left stranded. Marcie watched in horror as the humvee came to a screeching halt where the vehicle carrier used to be.

“Control to Ground Bronze, hang in. We’re coming to get you.”

“Ground Bronze to Control. Don’t try. You’re too late.”

“No, wait. We can….”

“Ma’am, Kal and I agreed. We do not want to be taken. Go. You can’t save us.”

Marcie watched as enemy soldiers tentatively approached the humvee, confused by its lack of motion and lack of defence.

“Wes!” Marcie was struggling to figure out a solution when the humvee exploded, killing its occupants and some of the enemy forces as well.

Marcie fought back tears and forced herself turn her attention to the military planes on their way. Most were carriers of some description, but her proximity monitor identified two as attack jets. Extremely fast. We can’t outrun them. Marcie toyed with scattering the fleet, but she knew that, against jets, they were stronger together. If even one of them were captured, the risk of exposing Origin was too great. They would have to fight.

“Dog fight. Dog fight. Bronze flight group defensive formation, please. Command Centre, battlestations, please. Battlestations.”

Every vehicle had been modified to include defences, but the Command Centre had a large arsenal. They would take the first shot. The rest of the fleet pulled away, while the command vehicle and two PAs, all equipped with laser and ADB rifles, took a defensive stance against the jets hurtling toward them. Marcie was sure that if they weren’t able to take at least one of those jets down, the hopes of the fleet were sunk.

Marcie ran to her battle station in the cockpit of the aircraft. She slipped into the pilot’s chair beside Howard.

“Relinquishing control,” barked Howard.

“Got it,” said Marcie as she grabbed the stick control. She almost smiled. If Robbie were here, he would find the fact that she was piloting ironic to say the least. She plugged her comset into the port by the pilot’s chair and hoped she could ignore her stomach. Howard disappeared down the companionway, to take his position in turret room three. Marcie assessed the oncoming jets. They were travelling around three hundred miles per hour and would be here in seconds.

“Fire at will. Here they come.”

Marcie enabled the automatic defences and grabbed the controller stick with both hands. She strained to see the oncoming jets, tiny dots in the distance, but the dots grew amazingly quickly and the jets were on them almost before she knew it. They arrived deploying a forward sweep laser that Marcie only barely avoided with a sharp bank to the south. Oh my stomach. The automatic defence system went nuts as did the four human fighters in the ‘turrets’. Marcie could barely follow the jets as they went past. She was struggling to keep control of the vehicle while at the same time performing more crazy tricks to avoid their fire. She heard, but didn’t see one of the jets explode.

“Got it!” That was Talla in turret room two. She was almost laughing with relief.

“Single target approaching,” Marcie said into her radio. “Warning fleet. Go on the attack. Warning fleet.”

“Fleet warned,” came Robbie’s voice. Marcie watched her radar screen closely as she executed a tight turn to take them back to the fleet. She set the vehicle on a pursuit course, but she knew they were too slow to be of any help. It would be over one way or another long before the command vehicle got there.

Marcie switched radio channels to check on the local police forces. They were being alerted and mobilizing. Her team had to get out of here. Okay, one thing at a time. She followed the two PAs in pursuit of the lone jet.

“Civilian forces on their way. We have no quarrel with them. Let’s dispatch this fighter and get out of here, people.”

The radar showed the fighter jet arriving at the fleet and circling. It managed to shoot down one PA before exploding under their combined fire.

“Fleet: drop and scatter. Rendezvous when you can.”

The remaining planes dropped low, out of radar range, so they would be difficult to track and took off in various directions. Eventually, they would all end up at a small base that had been set up just north of Algonquin Park, in Ontario’s wilderness. Assuming all went well, most of the fleet would arrive in about an hour. There, they would change planes and slip back into the stream of traffic crossing the borders.

“Sugar?” Robbie. Marcie felt a flood of relief to hear his voice. She hadn’t known which PA had been shot down. “Isolate, channel three.”

“Isolating.” The radio clicked as the two switched over. “Okay, what’s the bad news?”

“Sugar, we lost about half. Considering they were ready and gunning for us, I’d say we’re all lucky to be alive.”

“Your released prisoner, are you sure he’s of us?”

“Sure.”

“Search him anyway. Strip him down, give him some fresh clothes and chuck everything else he was wearing out a hatch. They could put homing equipment in it as a matter of course.”

“Will do.”

Marcie turned back to her readouts and sucked in her breath. “I just lost Henderson and Pall off my monitor. They must have been left behind.”

“Damn. At least they’re still alive.”

“We have to go back for them.”

“Sugar, there’s no way. It’s suicide.” Marcie knew he was right. She sat silently for a moment staring at the vidscreen. “There is nothing you can do, sugar. We have to get the rest of these people home.”

“You’re right,” she said finally. “Switching over, Robbie.”

“Switching over.”

Marcie changed back to general channels, and listened carefully to the civilian emergency channels. Fire and rescue vehicles were being dispatched to the Eastdown location, but no call for pursuit had been made.

About fifteen minutes later, Marcie’s radio came to life: “Home to Control. Home to Control.” Stellan’s voice over scrambled channel. The call she was dreading.

“Control here.”

“Report.”

As neutrally as possible, Marcie recounted the losses. They had come away with only two administrative computers and managed to free only a single prisoner. Unless they could get some key information out of the boxes or the prisoner, the whole mission was a disaster. They knew we were coming, sir,” Marcie finished.

“The only explanation. We have a traitor?”

Marcie shrugged. “Possibly.” But Marcie was certain that Stellan wasn’t telling her everything. She planned to have it out with him when she got back. It was a trait she’d learned from her years with sapiens. Occasionally, even for a fortunatus, it was good to yell.

“Origin exposure?”

“Origin is likely to be completely exposed, sir. If even one of the two captured soldiers survives, I hazard a guess that they’ll stop at nothing to find out who and where we are.” Yeah, and who the fuck is Helen Pearce? Marcie schooled her breathing. Now wasn’t the time.

Almost twenty-four hours later, Marcie and Robbie arrived back at the farm in a family-sized PA that looked like it had seen a little wind and rain. They parked the vehicle and made their way down the elevators toward Stellan’s office. As they arrived, Les greeted them.

“He’s not here, Marcie. He’s down in the labs.”

Marcie nodded and turned back toward the central elevators. She was feeling ashamed. She’d hoped to help these people, her people, and had returned horribly defeated. To get to the research centre, she would have to go through the Promenade. She wasn’t looking forward to the walk.

But when they arrived at the Promenade level and started the walk toward the research labs, she was deeply surprised by the response from the people of Origin. Instead of shying away or confronting her, people stopped and nodded in sympathy and understanding, many even gently touched her arm or shoulder as she walked past. By the time she walked the length of the Promenade she was crying, but working hard to keep her face as impassive as possible. She had never felt so understood or so supported.

They arrived at the elevator and stepped inside. As they turned back on the Promenade, there seemed nothing out of the ordinary. Robbie said clearly: “Level twelve.” The doors closed and Marcie wiped her eyes. Perhaps, she would not go after Stellan. Perhaps, she’d do it the Origin way and ask him a lot of questions.

As they arrived at the lab, the door was standing open. Marcie walked in first. She saw Stellan standing over a computer with Trent, one of Origin’s computer gurus. Stellan met her eyes. He was horrified. His face was ashen and his mouth was hanging open.

“What? What is it?”

“Trent found a series of deleted backups that stop abruptly about a week ago. Maybe Ryan had a change of staff? Anyway, Trent restored these files and he’s been working on them all the way home. He found something. I’m stunned. Am I reading this right?”

Marcie looked at Trent who was shaking his head slowly. She walked around the back of the bench and looked at the screen. There were two windows open on Stellan’s computer. The first window was a lab report on the employees of Eastdown. Every employee, apparently, had had to submit to a genetic analysis in order to determine his or her species. A wise precaution on their part because one employee was, in fact, identified as fortunatus. Employee #D285. Marcie looked at the second window, the employee log file. She scanned down the list looking for employee #D285. She found the entry. She felt her jaw go slack and she raised her eyes to look at Robbie.

“What, sugar?”

“Dr. Lawrence Ryan is fortunatus. He is one of us.”

Friday, July 16, 2083. 7:33 p.m.

Robbie sat down hard on lab stool. He shook his head as he tried to understand the implications of this information. The one man installed by sapiens to study fortunatus, the man who was performing horrible experiments, the man who was ignoring any pretence of human rights and dignity was, in fact, a fortunatus himself.

“Is it a secret or does the government know?” Marcie’s mind was already ticking away at the possibilities.

“They’re so paranoid about us, I can’t believe they know,” said Stellan. “I certainly can’t believe that they would install a fortunatus in a position of that much power.”

“I don’t think so either. So, it’s his dirty, little secret, huh? What do you think the government will do when they find out? I don’t think he’ll get to keep his job, do you? Worse, he has nowhere to run. Do you think anyone in Origin would be interested in housing him?”

Stellan looked at her. “Doubtful. His name’s become synonymous with evil around here, the kind of name parents invoke along with the bogey-man.”

Marcie nodded. “So, the only way for him to survive is to keep his ancestry a secret and keep on doing what he’s doing.”

Robbie sighed heavily. “Until it tears him apart.”

Marcie nodded slowly. “The situation will get worse before it gets better. He’ll be after us with a vengeance, especially if he thinks we know his secret. Stellan, you need to evacuate Origin.”

It was Stellan’s turn to sigh. “You’re right. But most people won’t go, Marcie. Yesterday, as soon as we understood the possible exposure, a team of twenty families left to set up a surface community. They’re posing as religious zealots. We gave them a lot of money. They’ll flourish.”

“Twenty families? About a hundred people?”

“Basically.”

“What about the other fifteen thousand?”

“I told you, Marcie. Most of us won’t go.”

He won’t leave either? She schooled her voice and changed the subject. “I wanted to ask you about Helen Pearce.”

Stellan sat back and waited. He looked like he knew this was coming. “What can I tell you about her?”

“Why is she so special, Stellan?”

Stellan didn’t even pause to consider his answer. “Every species has its abilities, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Every individual within that species will likely represent that species’ general tendencies or not, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Some individuals may be the exceptions that prove the rule, like yourself and Mr. McLean, but some individuals may embody those abilities so absolutely as to be the pinnacle of that species’ achievement.”

“Helen Pearce.”

“Yes. We don’t know everything, but we do know that she’s capable of some amazing feats. For example, she can guess the right answer almost one hundred percent of the time.”

“That’s an edge.”

“Yes.”

Great. “And Ryan knows her abilities.”

“Yes. Well, he was the one who found out, or rather, one of his researchers. If it weren’t for our spy, we would never have known.”

“Then, I bet you he also has Greg Pearce,” Robbie said. Marcie was nodding. Robbie continued. “Ryan will use Greg to force Helen to work her magic for him.”

Stellan’s brow furrowed. “We’re in trouble.”

“Yes, we are.”

Jacqui Burke is a freelance director, writer, and theatrical teacher living in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. She is currently directing Wrong for Each Other for Encore Productions opening in April, Kidsplay 2012: The Mayan Prediction opening in June, and The Last Five Years for TOKL Productions opening in July. She is, also, serializing The Pretender, her first novel, online at http://thepretender-amarcienoelnovel.blogspot.ca/. She is preparing for two Shakespeare is Boffo! summer camp sessions for 2012.

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The Pretender - Chapter 5

2012-03-31T06:55:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, June 29, 2083. 3:00 a.m.

This news that she wasn’t an average human disturbed Marcie to the core. She needed to think it through, but the thoughts wouldn’t come. She, so used to clarity, could only see a wall of fog. The fatigue wasn’t helping, but she couldn’t sleep. She was too edgy. She needed to learn more.

She sat cross-legged on her bed in the small room of the suite that had been assigned to her and Robbie. The test had been completed an hour ago and, in her mind’s eye, she could still see the projection of her genetic make up on the screen, juxtaposed beside an average sapiens. Dr. Stellan had taken time to point out the differences and had brought up Neanderthal DNA and chimpanzee DNA as comparison. Clearly there were enough markers that the species fortunatus evolved on earth. But, also clearly, fortunatus and sapiens were two different species. Related. Kissing cousins, but not the same. She felt like she’d spent her whole life as a pretender moving, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, with abandon among the lambs. She had always thought she was special.

Let’s see how you do when everyone around is as special as you. She chuckled.

She got up off the bed and went out to the kitchen area and wasn’t surprised to find Robbie there, leaning back on his chair, staring at the wall.

“Hey, sugar.”

“Hey.” Marcie sat down. “Stellan said that fortunatus naturally congregate. He said we instinctively recognize each other and tend to come together.”

“Yes.”

“And there I was thinking you had a crush on me.” Robbie only smiled. “But he also said that fortunatus aren’t violent and both you and I are. So what? It doesn’t change who we really are, does it?”

“It changes everything, sugar.”

“Why? We’re still the same two people, still doing a job for a guy named Greg Pearce, still chasing the bucks. And these people want us because they need to add violence to their list of super-achievements. Just look at this place.”

“It’s something else.” Robbie was nodding.

“Yeah.”

“I couldn’t live here.”

“Me neither.”

And neither, apparently could their ancestors. Marcie’s great-grandfather and Robbie’s grandmother had both left Origin in their youth to see what the wide world held for them. All who left were sworn to secrecy and, like most of The Outsiders, Marcie and Robbie’s ancestors had repudiated their heritage to walk among sapiens as sapiens. Despite this denial, dozens of offspring of the Outsiders, hindered though they were by ignorance and distance, managed to make contact with Origin. Very few Outsiders chose to stay and instead became part of a growing network of operatives out in the world. Apparently it was just such an agent who re-programmed Robbie’s PA.

“Look, sugar, let’s get dressed, go have an early breakfast, and get that doctor out of bed.”

“Yeah, if he wants us to break Helen Pearce out of Eastdown, we need to get started.”

“How long will she last in there anyway?”

“Yeah.”

They split up and emerged fifteen minutes later showered and changed.

“That looks pretty good on you.”

“Not so bad yourself.”

Origin fashions tended toward lightly tailored, unfussy clothing. Though not quite uniforms, most citizens looked a lot alike. Marcie had on a two-piece pantsuit that fitted her perfectly – usually she needed to tailor things – and was extremely comfortable and flexible. They went out to the Promenade.

At this time of day, the Promenade was quiet. The ambient light was dim, probably a nod to the human need to sleep when it was dark, and the streetlamps along the thoroughfare created a warm, cozy effect. There were a few citizens out and about at this time, readying their shops, making deliveries, preparing for another busy day. Robbie noticed The Flip Side, a little diner-style restaurant, and Marcie followed him in.

“Friends,” said the hostess as she greeted them at the door. “Oh. You’re our Visitors, aren’t you? How exciting.”

“And for us as well.”

The hostess smiled, but immediately looked concerned. “Please. Let me direct you to a restaurant more to your taste. We have little Outside fare here.”

Marcie shook her head. “No, no. That’s fine. We’re happy to try new things.”

The hostess brightened and smiled. “Come on in then. Sit wherever you like. I’m Sandy, your waitress. Coffee?”

“Sure,” said Robbie.

They found a table near the back and sat down.    Sandy came over and poured their coffees immediately. A small chime sounded.

“I’ll take your order in minute. I have to deliver some food.”

“Sure.” She was off.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a waitress move so quickly.”

“Everything’s like that here, sugar. Efficient. Nobody rushing, really, but nobody lazing either.”

“A different attitude. I wonder how much more gets done.”

“And remember, it’s not the money that moves these people.”

“Yeah.”

Moments later, Sandy returned.

“Well, what can I get you?” She seemed welcoming, genuine.

“Why don’t you get us the special today, Sandy? We really don’t know what all these dishes are. One thing is as good as another.”

“Sure.” Sandy was obviously pleased to help. She took their menus. “But the special might be a little too spicy for you, since you’re from North America.”

“Oh no,” said Marcie. “Robbie and I don’t eat hot dogs, apple pie, and cheese slices. We’ll try it.”

“Great.” She gave them a light shrug and was gone again.

Marcie sipped her coffee and was silent. Something about this place makes me itchy. Not everyone can conform, even in a society that thrives on it. “You know, I don’t feel like I’ve come home.”

“No way, sugar.”

“I don’t feel alienated but I don’t feel comfortable.”

“Maybe you just have to give it some time.”

“It just all seems so contrived, so controlled to me.”

“You know something, sugar?”

Here it comes: Robbie’s pearl of wisdom. “What?”

“You sound like someone who won’t leave her job because she’s scared to try something new. Just because it’s familiar, doesn’t mean it’s the best thing for you.”

“I hate it when you’re right.” She started to laugh.

The food arrived a few minutes later. Sandy brought them a vegetable and scrambled egg dish in a round, deep bowl and served with nothing else. It was delicious, a rich combination of herbs and spices that Marcie couldn’t identify, and surprisingly filling. They finished their meal around four o’clock in the morning and they were sipping coffee when Sandy came over.

She smiled as she spoke: “The early morning Reels have just been released. I wondered if you’d like to watch.

“Dr. Stellan mentioned the Reels. What are they?” asked Marcie.

“Like the streaming news, but better. Just push that button over there.” Sandy pointed to a panel on the wall beside them, smiled, and walked away.

“Are you gonna press it or am I?”

“Ha, ha.” Marcie reached over and punched the button. A vidscreen that was somehow a part of the wall came alive. A narrator spoke:

“Good morning and welcome to the Reels for Tuesday June twenty-sixth, twenty eighty-three. The time at the beep will be four-o-three-fifteen.” There was a slight pause and the machine beeped. “’Reels’ information was last uploaded at three fifty-two am and is scheduled to be updated again at six am.” Some light music began to play and the screen listed a series of choices: 1) Daily news, 2) Backgrounder, 3) Paths and Protocols, 4) Research, 5) Archives, 6) News from Our Outsiders, and 7) The Outside News.

“Well?”

“Well, since visitors are so important, let’s see if they have anything to say about us.” Robbie touched the screen on ‘Daily News” and it immediately flashed to black and then to a video of Robbie and Marcie walking up The Promenade with Dr. Stellan.

“I’m glad I don’t pick my nose.”

“Shut up.”

A commentator was speaking: “…are here with the Deputy Director on their first walk down the Promenade. Background information is available on each of our Visitors.” Two pictures, one of Marcie and one of Robbie, popped onto the screen below the view of them walking as the voice continued its commentary. Marcie almost laughed and touched her photo. A written biography appeared, including her birth date, her height and weight, her address and phone code Outside. Most of her life was here including some of the embarrassing parts. Robbie was laughing.

“You smashed up the first PA you drove?” Big guffaws.

“Ha ha. Well, I am now an extremely good pilot, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh right, that’s why you’re only Class 4.”

“I’m Class 4 because I don’t like the climbs to International. I could out-fly you any day.” This just made him laugh harder. Fine. “Let’s just see what there is on you, hmmmm?” Robbie’s bio read like a who’s who in New York society and Marcie kicked herself mentally once more for not having done a check on him herself. Oh there’s a surprise. Robbie never told me he was in the army. Then she stopped reading.

The information in these bios was exactly like the background checks she did in her work. For a moment, it seemed a bit chilling that her behaviour outside mimicked common behaviour here in Origin. In fact, outside, her checks were often considered an invasion of privacy, even though all the info came from public domain records. “You know, Robbie. These people are great researchers, just like we are. It isn’t a common sapiens trait.”

“It gives us an edge, sugar.”

“We were getting successful.”

“Yes, you were.”

Marcie clicked on Paths and Protocols. There were hierarchy charts and info on where to get whatever you need. There were statistics and general information. Population figures were recorded at fifteen thousand three hundred and twenty-four. The counter turned over to twenty-five as they watched.   The fortunatus were thriving, but where do they all live? How big is this place? Marcie clicked on the Paths section and found detailed drawings of the whole place with descriptions and commentary.

Marcie and Robbie started reading. Origin had three Warrens, or complexes, with over fifty levels in total, accessed through dozens of elevator shafts that pushed ever deeper into the earth, and horizontal movers that transported inhabitants from one Warren to another. There was one residential and retail Warren: The Promenade. The other two were manufacturing and agricultural.

Robbie was looking thoughtful. “Well, it’s not exactly a paradise, sugar.”

“What’s up?”

“Looking at these figures for maximum occupation: eighteen thousand souls. Looks like they’re running out of space.”

“Yeah, but they’re building.”

Origin did, in fact, need more living, manufacturing, and retail space and they were working on it. Just recently, an exploration team had found a new natural cavern bigger than The Promenade to which they were currently building connecting tunnels. Their biggest problem seemed to be how to dispose of the rock and earth that they excavated as they worked. Four fake mining operations had been started Outside to mask the amount of gravel coming up to the surface. All of Origin was waiting for the opening of this new public and residential space, set to be ready in about two years: Warren 4.

Marcie was nonplussed. Anyone who walked on the earth would never imagine that underneath might be a whole city full of people no one knew about.

At around six thirty and many coffees later, Marcie had to stop. She was feeling a level of culture shock like she’d never felt in her life. Origin made sense to her. It was all done efficiently with forethought and planning. And it was so unlike the chaos that ruled the Outside world, most sapiens would probably be suicidal in weeks. There was nothing to worry about here. Not bills, not money. You got everything you needed for free. Apparently some people took advantage of that, but not many.

And you didn’t have to worry about your career. Your individual performance from the moment you were born was recorded in an orderly fashion and what was called ‘the most beautiful pattern’ of your life would emerge for you. From an early age, you knew what you were good at and what you weren’t and most tended to concentrate on those things at which they excelled. Marcie wasn’t sure that she’d like to let this much personal information be public knowledge, but obviously this policy worked in here.

She wasn’t surprised when five minutes later Dr. Stellan joined them.

“Good morning,” he said with a grin.

“You can track us wherever we are, can’t you?”

“Oh yes, of course. Your codes were entered as you sat down to eat. Anyone can access that information.”

“Great. No crime. You don’t need a girl like me in a place like this.”

“Oh yes we do. Are you finished here? Yes?” Robbie and Marcie were nodding. “Come.”

He turned and started for the door and Robbie and Marcie, after exchanging a look, stood and followed. On their way out, Sandy called after them, wishing them a great day. They stepped out onto The Promenade that was now bathed in bright morning light.

“You adjust the lighting levels.”

“Yes, we find that any human performs better if they have simulated daylight. We can’t get it as bright as the sun in high summer, of course, so we supplement our diet with the vitamins and chemicals that our bodies like to produce in summer time.”

“Do you simulate the whole year?”

“Yes we do, but a year much closer to the equator than Toronto.”

“Dr. Stellan,” said Robbie. “How many people leave a year, say?”

“Very few. Like I said, folks are happy here. I would say about one in every few hundred is desperate enough to leave.”

“What happens then?”

“We run a full psychological examination on them to determine whether it’s just youth talking or truly the needs of the person’s heart. If it’s the latter, we let them go, with any immediate family members brave enough to go with them. The tendency does run in families. If it’s the former and we think they’ll grow out of it, we ask them to stay for a year or so to see if the urge disappears. It often does.”

Robbie frowned. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but aren’t you just breeding yourself a herd of cattle?”

They arrived at the Central Shaft of elevators. Stellan sighed. “Elevator, up. Yes, I understand what you’re saying. I’ve been thinking the same thing, so I’m spearheading an initiative that includes leaving Origin – well, a large group leaving Origin.” The elevator arrived and they walked in. “Elevator, level six.”

“A large group is going to leave?”

“Yes. In one year, we hope to out-load five thousand citizens.”

“That’s one third of the total population.” Marcie was shaking her head. “Why now, when things are getting so squirrelly out there?”

“We have no choice, Marcie. We’re in the middle of a baby boom.”

“They can’t keep up with the demand for space, sugar.”

“That’s right, Robbie.”

“What? Even with the new Warren?”

“Even with the new Warren,” said Stellan. “Projections indicate that we’ll reach full capacity just two years after opening and, even with increased manpower, it’ll probably take us another five after that to build something new. There are no more natural caverns in reasonable proximity to Origin. So we have no choice. It’s time to leave.”

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Stellan lead them down a long hallway as he talked. “All right. We believe Eastdown is an abomination and we need to get our people out of there. We’ve been slow to move on this, mainly because it’s been difficult to convince key citizens that the necessity is real. They are horrified by hearsay reports of the testing in Origin to the point of disbelief. Some thought the information was fake – to provoke us. But recently, we managed to get a spy in Eastdown – not one of us, just an average sapiens with a conscience. His reports confirmed everything and have shocked us so much we must act. As you know, we’re going to attempt to break those people out.

Robbie looked a little dubious. “Stellan, why can’t you appeal to the authorities?”

“We tried that. All three Outsiders who attempted official channels were picked up and taken to Eastdown.”

“Right.”

“You say there are many governments involved?”

“Yes, rightly or wrongly, sapiens perceives us as a threat. The US, England, Canada, Spain, France, and Russia, all these, and more, support Eastdown. I assume other governments are, at least, wary of us. There is nowhere for us to turn.”

Marcie and Robbie were nodding.

Stellan stopped at a set of double doors and continued: “And now that you know you’re one of us, we hope that you’ll help us with this strike: help us plan it, train us, and lead the expedition. No one here has the required experience.”

Robbie was nodding. He clearly thought he was the right man for the job but Marcie was not so sure if she could truly help. She had no formal military experience, just a scrappy youth. Maybe that’s enough.

“We are going into a planning meeting for the strike at Eastdown. Listen. Assess as best you can and if you have something to add, it’s best to phrase it as a question rather than a criticism.”

They went through the double doors into a large conference room, but there were only three people waiting for them when they walked in: one woman and two men, sitting around a circular conference-style table. The others stood as Marcie, Robbie, and Stellan approached.

Stellan spoke first: “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Let me do some introductions. Marcie, Robbie, these folks know who you are but you don’t know them. Please meet Karen Ray.” Karen was tall, even for a fortunatus, thin, but well built. She had short blond hair and was wearing masculine style clothing. The whole effect was severe, but softened by a brilliant smile. “That’s Paul Levy.” Paul was dressed casually, in shorts and t-shirt. With his blonde hair and blue eyes, Marcie would have sworn he’d just stepped off the beach. He, too, smiled and nodded. “And last, but not least, Walter Dern. Walter is the Team Leader.”

“I prefer Facilitator,” said Walter with a grin. “Please sit down. We’re trying to develop a plan to get those people out of there.” He waited while Marcie, Robbie, and Stellan sat and then he turned his attention to a simplified architectural plan displayed on a large view screen at the front of the room. “Okay, folks. Let’s review for our newcomers. The plan is to cut the power to the whole structure and then send in a small team to infiltrate and release the prisoners. Once the power is out the strike team will enter here on the east wall, travel down this corridor, turn right here and they’ll be in the main cellblock. They’ll release as many prisoners as possible using small incendiary devices to break into each cell. Once they’ve released the prisoners or once they’re in danger of getting caught, they’ll usher the released prisoners back out the way they came in and to the waiting vehicles.”

Marcie raised her hand. Walter smiled: “We thought you’d have something to say.”

Marcie smiled back. Sometimes she thought she had the words ‘I AM OPINIONATED’ tattooed on her forehead. “Well, let’s start at the beginning. You say you’re planning to cut the power, yes?”

“Yes, by planting a bomb at the generator…here.”

“But what about all the back-up generators?”

Walter stopped. “We don’t have a plan for handling any back-up generators.”

“It doesn’t really matter anyway. Even if you take out every generator on the property, there are probably small battery back-up power sources all through the building. They usually cough up between fifteen minutes and half an hour’s worth of power, but that would be enough for them to frustrate any attempt to sneak in. And, of course, in fifteen minutes, half the army would be there.”

“Yes,” Robbie said, “once you set off the bomb, their security system and security forces will be automatically on the alert. Power or no power, they’d be stupid not to have a protocol that puts their defences into high gear if something like that happens.”

“I agree. Your plan might work in the movies, but not for real,” Marcie said.

“Well then, what do you think we should do? A full frontal attack? We really don’t have the resources.” Karen was looking at them frankly.

“No, nor the manpower,” responded Robbie. “Do you have a more detailed map of the building with the grounds? How about an aerial shot? We only drove by there once and that was in a ground car.”

Walter responded. “We have a good map, and I can get you an aerial from one of the satellite Internet sites if you like. One moment.” He consulted some notes and then spoke into a microphone that was part of a complicated control panel built into the conference desk. “Shot fifty-three.”

The image on the view screen changed. It was Eastdown in full architectural detail, including landscaping.

Robbie asked, “How old is this information?”

“Within the last thirty days.”

Robbie was nodding. “Good, good.”

“It’s a small place.” Marcie was squinting. “Okay, we plant that bomb. We could even drop one from an automated AP.”

“Didn’t you say that plan was useless?” asked Walter.

“No, I said it wouldn’t knock out the power, but it would be a great diversion.”

“How about this? We plant bombs all over,” said Robbie. “They go off like World War Three.”

“Risky,” responded Karen. “Someone might get hurt.”

Marcie just looked at her. This is going to be a long day.

Walter spoke. “We have to start thinking along those lines, Karen. We’re playing a different game, now.”

“They’d have no problem blowing you away,” Robbie said wryly. “They wouldn’t think twice.” Robbie looked more serious than she’d ever seen him. “If we’re going to do this, we can’t be wishy-washy about it or we’ll fail and get ourselves caught.”

Marcie let it sink in and then she changed the subject completely. “If we really want to sneak in, we need to take out their computers. Their network will be at the heart of any security they have, from their ability to see through remotes to their ability to, well, lock doors in our way for example. Most security teams rely very heavily on their computer systems. We’d have to figure out the best way to knock them out, but I have an idea.”

“How?” Walter looked dubious.

“We’ll mess up the system with a few million attacks a second. Most government computer systems will drop everything to ensure no one gets in – especially if they link to the federal systems Ottawa – so their resources will be used up. There’ll be nothing left for doing anything else.”

“How do we generate a few million attacks a second?” Walter was looking a little surprised. “We don’t have that kind of computer power in the whole of Origin.”

“There are lots of ways to do it, but I think I’ll drop a virus a few days before. If I put it in a joke or some free pornography, it’ll go all the way around the world three times in a few hours. We would eventually infect a few hundred million machines. Then, at the appointed time, all those computers will attack. Should work.”

“How can you get into all those computers? Don’t they have firewalls and virus protection?”

“It’ll be a new virus and it won’t do anything to the machine. Very few people will notice, so it’ll take a couple of days to detect. There are virus trackers out there that sift through every email sent through certain gateways for dormant code but they’re usually a couple of days behind the times. By then, the damage will be done.”

Robbie was nodding. “With the security system knocked out, we should be able to launch a full frontal attack, but again, only as a diversion. We’ll send the real rescue team in the side, through the door on the east wall like you suggested. But we haven’t considered a lot of variables. Like what do we do if the prisoner can’t walk?”

Silence at that. No one wanted to think that the prisoners really might be in that bad shape, but of course, this was the reason they were going to try to break them out in the first place.

Robbie cut through the quiet. “There’s another option that we need to discuss: Mercenaries. We could hire a team of sapiens to do what they do best.”

“No.” Stellan’s voice was sharp, commanding everyone’s attention. “This isn’t the time for us to hide behind these walls. Our circumstances, our pride, and, I think, our very well-being demand that it’s time for us to go forward. We have been like children. We must do this ourselves.”

He’s going to be the next Director. That’s who this guy is. And if he does end up running the place, fortunatus is going to emerge very soon from this cocoon to find their way in a harsh world. They would survive or they wouldn’t. Well, it was ever thus.

Wednesday, June 30, 2083. 6:00 a.m.

The alarm went off as usual and Ryan reached over and flicked it off in a casual way. He was actually already awake, staring out at the meadows and fields in the distance. He could see some clouds approaching from the west but he looked forward to the day. It was easy to get out of bed in the mornings because each day was a challenge. He liked that. He hated boredom.

He showered and dressed in his usual charcoal grey suit, white shirt, and red tie. He ate his breakfast alone in a heavily curtained room watching six holoscreens at once, at the back of the house off the kitchen. He polished off breakfast quickly and sat back, sipping his coffee. He took the opportunity to continue his memoir.

He clicked on a remote that turned off all the vidscreens. He tapped his neck and said, “Computer.” He waited a moment until the system beeped entry. “Computer, record.”

“In 2071, I was an up-and-coming genetics researcher at the University of Toronto. Despite my medical degree, genetics fascinated me and I preferred the research. I was thorough and was quickly being consulted on difficult cases – especially when the patients had no money. I didn’t command the kind of fees that the established specialists did, but I was content. All in good time was my motto.
“But then, the Healey case came along, and my whole world changed.

“Joanne and Rick Healey had been trying to conceive a child for almost a decade. They were in their late thirties, healthy, and very attached to one another. But they couldn’t have a child. There seemed to be no problem with sperm count, no problem with number or quality of eggs. Joanne was physically more than capable of carrying a child and all the standard tests and procedures had been run without success.

“Then the couple attempted in vitro fertilization, the logical next step. Despite using some of the finest technology available, the eggs wouldn’t fertilize. Stumped, the case was passed on to me.

“I was intrigued and threw myself into the research with a vengeance. Human reproduction may have been a mystery a few hundred years ago but, since the fertility crisis in North America early on in the century, researchers and processes have come a long way. It was rare that a couple couldn’t, at the very least, conceive a child of their own. And surrogate mothers were almost a dime a dozen. So what was happening to the Healeys?

“The answer came when I did a thorough comparison of their genetic patterns. A standard comparison had been done months earlier to determine if the parents’ genes were too similar. People with too similar genetic patterns often have trouble conceiving. But I was looking at their patterns with a different eye. I was taking a much closer look, searching for a genetic mutation or other problem. What I found was puzzling. There were far too many genetic markers that were different.

“I could not believe what I was seeing and there was only one conclusion. Joanne and Rick Healey were from two different species. I compared both their patterns to several of other average human beings and determined that Rick Healey was not homo sapiens. I was so stunned by my conclusions, I kept it to myself for days. This was the stuff of fiction, not reality. But I eventually came to my wits and contacted the Canadian government.

“Days of meetings convinced the government that fortunatus might be a danger and that more research was necessary. Once convinced, the government reacted with a characteristic distrust of the unknown and labelled the new species ‘threatening and to be treated as hostile’. I couldn’t imagine Rick Healey hurting a fly, but I assumed the government knew what it was doing.

“I decided that this was an opportunity I couldn’t pass by. I developed, wrote, and submitted a comprehensive proposal for setting up a research facility. I was the one who made the original discovery and I wanted to be the one to study this new species, determine its strengths and weaknesses, find out if it really was a threat or not. I also suggested various protocols for detection of members of the new species. The price tag would be high.

“The Canadian government shared the information with some of its allies and soon Eastdown Corporation was established with money being funnelled in from sixteen governments from all around the world. I got the top job and the Corporation adopted most of my suggestions. Their trust in me was absolute. I was given previously unheard of powers. I could mobilize domestic and military forces essentially when and where I needed. Further, I had The Eastdown Security Force (ESF) to help me round up this other species.”

“Computer, end record.” Ryan tapped his neck to cut the connection and stood up. It was almost six-forty-five. Time to go to work.

As he walked out to the PA pad, Ryan thought about the early years. This job was Ryan’s dream come true, though admittedly there was one snag early on. Ryan had ordered blood tests for everyone involved with Eastdown to ensure that they started with only sapiens on staff. His own test results had been something of a shock. Luckily, he was the only person above suspicion, the man with the key knowledge, and he was the one processing and screening the tests. It was a simple trick to make sure his true heritage remained undetected.

Surely, he could have backed out then. Surely it was time, early on, to decide that this course of action was too much of a risk. But Ryan couldn’t help himself. Ryan had aspirations. He had great ability. He knew in his heart that he was meant for bigger things. Perhaps this was his only chance? He continued on. He thought he was made of stern stuff. Not really stern enough, of course, but that wouldn’t become apparent for some time.

So after himself, Rick Healey was his first Subject. The government insisted on immediate incarceration. The Eastdown Coalition wanted containment. They did not want the general public to hear about a new species in case there was widespread panic. Ryan suspected that there were other motivations behind this decision. Panic was a convenient excuse. Ryan thought that they kept the new species a secret just in case fortunatus was widely accepted by sapiens. The government was just paranoid enough to be worried about what would happen in that case, all in the name of national security. Ryan took up responsibility for the Eastdown Mandate without question.

So, Rick Healey became a criminal. Ryan was a little surprised at how easy it was to fake a crime. In Healey’s case, the government was able to produce overwhelming evidence that Healey had attempted to evade paying thousands of dollars in taxes. Despite having a good defence lawyer, Healey went directly to jail. He did not pass ‘Go’.

But he did not stay in jail for long. In his first week of incarceration, a fellow inmate murdered Healey with a switchblade. No one could explain how the weapon found itself inside the facility or even why Healey was a target in the first place. There was a public outcry that died down over time and an official inquiry that cost a lot of money but was able to determine nothing. To add insult to injury, prison officials cremated the body despite written instructions from Healey’s widow. She mourned her husband and moved on. Within two years she was married and pregnant with her first child. Rick was already a bittersweet memory.

But, of course, he was really very much alive. He was initially transferred to a temporary facility while Eastdown was being built. They managed to keep him cowed with lies: that he was infected with some horrible disease, the Typhoid Mary of his generation; that most of the people he knew and loved were dead. The Eastdown team left him on his own but watched him through one-way glass as he grieved the loss of his wife and the rest of his family. It soon became apparent that Healey would melt down mentally if he did not have more company.

So Ryan became his friend. On the other side of a sterile window (they had to keep up the ruse), but it worked. The two men spent time together. They played chess. Ryan brought Healey books to read. They shared meals. They became good friends. Though Ryan had the whole Eastdown Project to set up, staff to hire, various protocols to put into place with dozens of military organizations, he enjoyed his relationship with Healey. And Healey’s overall emotional health improved quickly. So when Healey moved into Eastdown, he was ready for testing to begin with his full cooperation. Ryan started building what was to become a formidable database of facts on the new species.

As soon as Eastdown was completed, the General Mandate went out to all physicians who worked in the sixteen nations involved in the Eastdown Coalition. The General Mandate required that physicians report any patient who had a similar genetic make-up to the fortunatus pattern. Slowly, but inevitably, more of this new species were caught and incarcerated at Eastdown. As Ryan assumed, there weren’t many out in the world, maybe only a few thousands. Every Subject was a gift.

But one day, Healey figured out that Ryan was lying to him. By what mechanism, Ryan was uncertain. Healey did not yell or fight as one might expect from a sapiens. He simply shut down. He stopped eating. He stopped doing anything. He became a useless subject. Ryan refused to feel guilty about this. He refused to take responsibility. He simply decided that he would no longer get close to the ‘Subjects’ as he now referred to them. A researcher needs a healthy distance, and clinical objectivity.

Healey died only a few weeks later, despite a regimen of force-feeding combined with drugs to combat his obvious depression. Many on staff, and particularly the psychiatrist Randall, felt Healey’s death was from a broken spirit, a broken heart. But Ryan was pleased to note in his report an obvious fallibility of the new species they were starting to call fortunatus, not only because that is how they referred to themselves but because of the subject’s parlour tricks in the psych testing rooms. The fortunatus clearly could not easily process betrayal. Ryan knew that over time he would find more weaknesses. He would fulfill his mandate.

And it was more critical than ever. Government agents had uncovered the possibility that the fortunatus had a base called Origin and that the base was very well organized and that it had operatives out in the world. The governments of the Eastdown Coalition were becoming very nervous.

So, now a new round of blood testing was underway. All member countries were interested in identifying and eventually removing any fortunatus from their payroll. Ryan looked forward to the influx of new Subjects but knew that Eastdown would have serious trouble dealing with them all. Ryan felt certain that many fortunatus would be found working for the government. It suited their nature.

He would have to make sure that the results from the Eastdown employee’s test were covered up again, but that shouldn’t be much of a problem. He was, after all, in charge of the place.

What was most important to Ryan, though, was identifying the fortunatus’ Achilles’ heel. He was becoming obsessed by the task and just recently ordered the intensity of the testing stepped up. There were grumbles from the staff but no one had quit. In the end they all understood the importance of the research to humanity.

Unfortunately, fortunatus did not really seem to have an Achilles’ heel. Just like sapiens, this new species seemed to have its abilities and its drawbacks, but no fatal flaw, like alien species always had in sci-fi flicks. And in many ways, fortunatus seemed to have an edge on sapiens. Ryan couldn’t put his finger on the difference, but the new species seemed to have a different way of communicating, a more immediate intimacy, a facility for consensus. A huge edge, any way you slice it. Ryan had recently become thankful he’d adopted the habit of wearing the surgical mask. He was certain that fortunatus could read subtle physical cues that sapiens couldn’t. He did not want to give himself away.

But there must be something that would humble this new species. He was certain of it.

He arrived at Eastdown and made his customary walk of the grounds and specifically the gardens to the east of the building. He loved the ordered chaos of a well-designed garden. The walk tended to settle him down, focus his thoughts. He eventually ended back at the front of the building and entered, observing all protocols to the letter.

Cindy Welton, his assistant, was already at her desk when he got there.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Morning, Cindy. You’re well, I hope?”

“Thank you, sir. Your coffee is on your desk along with one security report that’s a little disturbing.”

“From Norman?”

“Well, no, sir. It has no name on it and it’s printed on a blank page.”

“That’s odd.”

“It’s on your desk.”

Tuesday, July 6, 2083. 5:45 a.m.

Why do military types always like to get up with the birds? Marcie walked out of the suite she shared with Robbie and went down to the Promenade. In the week she’d been here, she’d started to learn her way around. She hadn’t gotten lost at all the day before.

The light mimicked the early morning and, indeed, birds were singing. Marcie was dressed in baggy cotton pants, t-shirt and running shoes, ready for a day of combat training and instruction.

She’d decided to eat out. She never liked eating alone and now she knew why. She stopped in at Flip Side for coffee and a big breakfast. Her report time was six fifteen. She’d be on time.

“Good morning, Marcie.”

“Hi Sandy.”

“How are you today?”

“Okay, thanks.”

“You seem a bit troubled.”

Marcie thought before answering. “Maybe it’s all so new, Sandy. Give me a few days.”

“Sure. What would you like for breakfast?”

“Oh, the special, please.”

“Great.”

She accessed the computer at her table and logged in. Tracy had sent a long email to Marcie’s current public alias on the net the night before, reporting on what was going on in the office. Apparently, they didn’t need her at all. Both the new employees were working out fine and, in fact, they were extremely efficient. Tracy had hired two more temps to clear up the backlog and had temporarily pulled some of the advertising to take the pressure off. She wished Marcie luck in her investigation and even mentioned that Marcie was missed. Sure, sure. Her breakfast came.

Marcie sent a quick response, logged off the netmail site and tucked into her breakfast. She left with a nod of thanks to Sandy and headed off to the Sports Complex. Project Eastdown had been given top priority for all resources in Origin and the Sports Complex – an extensive set of fields, gymnasia, and swimming pools had been assigned as the military education centre. Marcie and Robbie, working ostensibly under Walter, had been given a hundred people who they were training to shoot and fight.

Marcie was little surprised that fortunatus hadn’t embraced even the martial arts. She loved the philosophy and the emphasis on calm, cool minds. She taught as she’d been taught and was pleased to see how quickly her pupils embraced these ‘new’ concepts.

But Marcie had nothing on Robbie. She arrived at his class just minutes before it was to begin. Today, Robbie was instructing the soldiers on the basics of group combat, on engaging an enemy, on how platoons work.

He was standing at the front of the room when she came in. She gave him a smile and a nod and went to find a seat. This morning, she was a pupil.

He started off with org charts and command structure charts to help the recruits understand how the army worked. But he ran into trouble early on.

“Sir, what if our orders don’t make sense?”

“What do you mean?

“What if, from our perspective, the orders are faulty?”

“Makes no difference. You have to follow them.”

“Why should we follow orders that don’t make sense?”

His pupils simply didn’t accept that an individual should follow orders without questioning them. And yet this principle was the foundation of most military organizations. Robbie was silent, clearly stumped. He probably hadn’t expected the group to have trouble with this concept, considering how passive they all seemed. But it became clear that these soldiers were passive only because they chose to be. Their arguments came in the form of questions.

“Sir, you’re saying I should follow my orders to the letter, but aren’t there times when I’ll have to make my own decisions?”

“Well, sure, but you cannot go back on your orders.”

“But what if there are times when the orders will hurt or kills us?”

“That’s part of the job of being a soldier. Sometimes you’re put in positions that you can’t get out of, for the greater good.”

“Does that seem like wise management to you?”

Robbie just stared. The new recruits had hit on a basic problem in military organization: The Lousy Officer. There were many officers who were willing to sacrifice their troops needlessly to make up for a lack of planning at the outset and some even who didn’t realize that they were sacrificing their troops needlessly. On the spot, Robbie realized that these people would not follow blindly. They were too smart and too discerning. He sat on the desk and looked at them all.

“Okay. We won’t do this the way that sapiens does. We will, as a group, help to develop the plan. We will, as a group, assign positions and we will, as a group, put this plan into action. I can see that you’ll all need to make decisions out there and I believe in your ability to so do but remember, when you are out there, give strong weight to the information that comes down to you from the command centre. They’re the only people who can see the whole picture. Now, does that make sense to you?”

Nods all around. In a sapiens army, this policy would have lead to chaos, utter chaos. He was taking a chance, but Marcie had faith in him.

Robbie obviously scrapped what he was planning to discuss and called Marcie up to the front. They got into the nitty-gritty of the assault on Eastdown and how they intended to do it. By the end of the day, five separate teams had emerged with individuals naturally gravitating to the party where their skills were most needed. Marcie had never seen anything like it.

The first team was the communications and command team. Marcie was at the centre of this team, with four others who were strong communicators and who had excellent computer skills. These people would monitor the action, and impart as much information as possible, along with recommendations for action, and the occasional order.

Robbie, funnily enough, didn’t want to be in charge of the whole operation – he preferred to lead the rescue team. There were fifteen members on this squad along with ten drivers and pilots who would get the prisoners out of there when the time came.

Walter became the leader for the frontal assault squadron with Paul Levy in charge of the incendiary troop. Karen seemed most interested in Operations, including medical backup. She organized the largest faction: thirty-five folk.

At five-thirty, Robbie called it quits and sent everybody home. Marcie and he went off to dinner.

“This is something else,” Robbie said after sitting silently for some time. “We won’t be wasting any time here. They can just work up what they have to.”

“Absolutely. Though I think they should all learn how to shoot, yes?”

“Yes and a little hand-to-hand. But just the basics for the Ops and Com teams. We don’t have to train everybody on everything. It’s a relief. I didn’t think we were going to be ready soon enough to satisfy Stellan’s timetable.”

“Well, he wants his niece out of there.”

Marcie noticed someone approaching their table, looked up, and was unsurprised to see Stellan. She was getting used to anyone being able to find her. She smiled.

“May I join you?”

“Sure, but we’re almost done here.”

Stellan sat. “Oh no, I just have a favour to ask, Marcie.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ve received a few thousand emails, requesting that your martial arts classes be broadcast throughout Origin. Would that be a problem for you?”

Marcie was a little surprised. “No, I can handle that.”

“Great. Do you think you might continue the classes after the strike is completed?”

“Assuming we stay on, sure.”

“Great. Have a good evening, then.” Stellan stood up.

“That’s it?”

“Yes. Good evening.”

“Sure.”

Stellan walked off. That was an odd exchange.

“He doesn’t mince words, does he?”

“You know, sugar. I think he has other things on his mind than small talkin’ with us.”

“You’re probably right.”

Marcie checked in to see if Tracy had any problems back at the office and then they went off to the suite. She needed some rest.

Tuesday, July 6, 2083. 9:00 p.m.

“Oh damn.” Cindy Welton looked at her Certificate of Excellent Service plaque, smashed on the floor. She’d been startled by the intercom and had shied, knocking the thing from the wall.

“Yes, sir,” she said as she pressed the intercom button.

“You all right out there?” Dr. Ryan’s voice came through in that droll tone he used when he was amused by something. Obviously he’d heard the crash.

“Ha, ha. I’m fine, just polishing my klutz routine.” Her humour denied her disappointment. She was proud of that award. “What do you need? I was on my way home.”

“I know it’s late but I just wanted to go through today’s correspondence if it won’t take too long.”

“Oh sure, it’s only a few minutes’ worth. I’ll be right in. After I play janitor.”

Cindy sat for a moment before she got the broom. She was getting jumpy; she needed to settle down.
Cindy helped Dr. Ryan administer Eastdown. She was proud of the work they were doing here. She understood that the authorities had to know what they were dealing with and whether fortunatus posed any threat to sapiens. But just lately the nature of the tests had changed. Now there were screams coming from inside the compound. Cindy was getting edgy and had started having nightmares. She set to cleaning up.

A few minutes later, Cindy tapped on her boss’ door and waited for his “Come!” before she entered. She carried a small stack of correspondence, two reports, and some expense accounts for his approval.

He smiled at her. She could tell he was relieved that the end of the day had come. The workload had been stressful lately. He was good looking when he lightened up – tall, auburn hair, dimples. He had the looks to go right to the top in politics and that’s where he wanted to go, straight to Prime Minister’s Office. She thought it would be fun to go with him. She gave him a big smile back. She, too, was relieved that this would be their last task today. It had been a trying one.

The governments of the sixteen countries of the Eastdown coalition had recently decided to screen all of their employees for fortunatus genes. Smart move. You can’t tell by looking. Actually, Cindy was surprised this hadn’t been ordered earlier. No government wants to have a host of possible traitors working for them.

Yesterday, the results had started rolling in from over fifty labs around the world. They were already finding many fortunatus working for various governments, perhaps an expression of their natural tendency to band together. The tests identified hundreds more Subjects. Of course, Eastdown was too small to manage such a crowd – in ten years they had passed only two hundred or so through their doors. Also Dr. Ryan felt certain that he was going to identify the location of Origin soon. And that would likely mean another group of fortunatus to contain. They would have to set up a detention camp somewhere.

Cindy had wanted to hire some temps, but could only use them after they’d been tested too. The results for Eastdown were in the small pile of things to handle this evening. Cindy was relieved; she wanted the temps to get working first thing Monday morning.

Cindy had one other issue on her agenda. She’d decided she would ask for sound-proofing to be installed between the old house that served as administrative offices, and the new complex, where the Subjects were kept. She could think of no other way to resolve her discomfort with the noise. She was certain Dr. Ryan was only doing what was necessary and she felt she must support him in this, but she couldn’t continue to cope with the Subjects’ screams. She couldn’t bear the thought of anyone getting hurt for the purposes of scientific inquiry, even a fortunatus. She could remind herself that these weren’t human beings and that they don’t have the rights that a human had; she could remind herself that they were a possible threat to her very way of life, but she couldn’t stand their pain. She was sure that Dr. Ryan would approve her request.

Ryan went through the correspondence quickly but took a little more time with the expense accounts. Then he turned his attention to the two reports in the pile. He took the first report, an environmental assessment of expansion plans at Eastdown, and put it in his in-tray for later. Then he opened the laboratory reports and sat back to read them.

Cynthia waited patiently. She’d kicked off her shoes and was sitting casually in her chair, feet drawn up beneath her, as was their wont when they were working after hours. She was looking right at him when his face changed. Something he read or thought stopped him cold. He turned his gaze on her and the Dr. Ryan that she knew was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating, and threatening animal. His eyes bore down on her. She’d never been so frightened in her life. She stood, almost involuntarily.

“Sir?”

“Cindy, have you read this report?” His voice was too low, too even, too controlled.

Cindy was completely jangled. She managed to blurt out incoherently that she hadn’t.

“Then why are you so upset?” Again that tone.

Cindy looked down on the ground, anything but those terrible eyes of his. Then her world stopped. Was there something in that report about her? She looked at him. God, look at his eyes. There was. Am I one of them? I can’t be, can I?

“I…I…I…” was all she managed. She’d lived her adult life supporting and promoting this person. She was loyal, efficient, and, at times, even brilliant at her job. She’d ignored personal pursuits to see this project go.

Now, it looked like none of that mattered. If there were one time in her life that she shouldn’t accept the rules, if there were one time in her life that she should act in her own interests, this was that time.

She turned and sprinted for the door. Damn, forgot my shoes! She ran straight through to her office, and grabbing her purse that was, luckily, sitting on her chair, sprinted out to the hallway. She was fast and over ten years his junior. She hoped it was enough.

She didn’t want to be one of those people. She didn’t want to be a nameless, faceless Subject, who no one knows and no one cares about. She didn’t want to be on the other side of soundproof doors. She didn’t look back to see who pursued her. She ran.

She ignored the long hallway to the main entrance and crashed through the fire doors just past her office. Outside, there was a walkway that snaked through the gardens on the way to the parking lot. It was already dark and gloomy under overcast skies. There was a chill in the air. She ran.

She took only a few steps when the garden lights came on full, almost blinding her. She knew she could be seen easily from the building. She dove off the path and pushed wildly through the hedge that masked the parking lot. She broke through, suffering some scratches, but she didn’t feel them; she only saw her PA.

There seemed to be no pursuit from security but she knew from experience that three or four of them could appear from nowhere. She ran to her PA and scrambled in as fast as she could. She put the keycard in and punched the vehicle to life, but then she realized the plane would take a few minutes to run through its start-up sequence. Damn! She looked up and saw a ground jeep used for surveillance parked about twenty feet away. Maybe? She jumped out of her PA.

When she got to the jeep, she couldn’t believe her luck. The keycard was still in the ignition. She got in and started the engine. She shifted into reverse, turned to back up and then saw Ryan, trying to open the passenger side door. She screamed, stamped on the gas, and the vehicle lurched backwards. It was only luck that she managed to hit nothing. Ryan lost his hold on the already open passenger door and fell to the ground. Cindy screeched to a halt, changed gears and stamped so hard on the gas that she squealed the tires in her haste to get away. She thought he was calling to her as she drove toward the exit but she didn’t hear what he said. She saw, though, in her rear view mirror, that Ryan was picked up by another security Jeep. They weren’t going to let her go easily.

She navigated the parking lot without incident, but as she came up to the gate, Cindy could see it was closing and she didn’t know if she’d be able to smash through it. She increased her speed in the hope that she would clear the gate before it was down. As she approached, one of the security guards jumped out and fired at her. She had no choice but to continue. He leaped out of the way only just in time and Cindy cleared the closing gate by centimetres.

Cindy skidded onto St. John’s Side Road and drove off into the night. In her rear-view mirror, she could see Ryan’s vehicle crash through the fence. They were slowed a little, but not enough for her to get away. She drove through a wooded stretch to Leslie Street, the first intersection. She ignored the stop sign and turned right, tires squealing, south toward the city. She accelerated down Leslie sending up clouds of dust in her wake.

But it wasn’t long before Ryan’s jeep was right behind her. She was a good ground driver, but no match for the kind of men who patrolled Eastdown. For a few kilometres, she and Ryan played cat and mouse. They would attempt to pass and she would block. They would ram the back of her vehicle and she would slam on the brakes fighting for control. She didn’t know how much of this she could take. She finally decided on a ploy that might work.

She pretended to miss a dodge to the left and very soon they were pulling up beside her. She screamed for good effect, trying to seem helpless and out of control, but she was careful to match their speed so they wouldn’t get ahead. Then, she rammed their vehicle hard, trying to force them into the ditch. It almost worked, but Sam, the driver of the other vehicle, turned hard back toward the road and the two vehicles were locked in a struggle for control. Neither saw the ground truck coming north until it was almost too late.

As the truck’s headlights clearly illuminated Ryan’s angry face, Cindy screamed in truth, and slammed her foot on the brake while at the same time turning the car hard to the right. She only just cleared the truck and careened wildly, ending up in the ditch, staring at a field of corn. She shook her head and tried to rev the engine, but the vehicle had died. She tried to start it a few times but to no avail. She had to run.

She pushed the vehicle door open and jumped down. The gully was wet and muddy. She scrambled up the side, over a low fence and into the cornfield. She could see a stand of trees about three hundred feet away. The corn would give her some cover if she kept low. She started to run wondering if she would make it.

How can this be happening to me? Her brain froze for a moment. Hadn’t her blood been checked years ago to determine her paternity – that whole nasty business when her parents split up? Her father had accused her mother of sleeping around even suggesting that Cindy wasn’t his daughter. Her mother had responded by requesting both Cindy (then seventeen) and her father’s blood be analyzed to determine paternity. If there’d been a problem, it most surely would have come up then. Cindy slowed to a trot. She’d had chicken pox when she was a kid. She stopped running altogether. I am not fortunatus. There is no reason to run. She stood up. She would let them take her in and she would request a re-test. Then she would quit. But if there’s nothing wrong with me…? Cindy wondered what Ryan was so upset about. If I’m not the problem, then…then….

She never heard the shot that killed her. She crumpled to the muddy ground as rain started to fall.   And all her secrets, large and small, died with her.

Jacqui Burke is a freelance director, writer, and theatrical teacher living in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. She is currently directing Wrong for Each Other for Encore Productions (www.encoreshows.com) opening in April, Kidsplay 2012: The Mayan Prediction opening in June, and The Last Five Years for TOKL Productions opening in July. She is, also, serializing The Pretender, her first novel, online at http://thepretender-amarcienoelnovel.blogspot.ca/. Thanks to Brenda for her ongoing inspiration, and John for his ongoing support.

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The Pretender - Chapter 4

2012-03-20T09:50:00.001-07:00

Monday, June 28, 2083. 8:30 a.m.

Marcie sipped her coffee and stared out at New York City; streams and streams of traffic moved in tight grids in the skies above, with PAs ascending and descending seemingly chaotically. Despite the late night, she was already showered and changed, dressed in the white t-shirt and blue jeans she ordered with her breakfast. The hotel delivered both half an hour before. They had even sent her a quite tasteful pair of shoes. Apparently you could get anything delivered to your hotel room if you knew whom to ask.

Marcie hadn’t heard a noise from Robbie’s room yet and she really wanted to chat. She was trying to understand what had happened. Not ten days had passed since Marcie first met Greg Pearce. Since then, the case had escalated to the point at which strangers were shooting at her for no apparent reason. She’d come to few conclusions and had a list of questions and inquiries as long as her arm, oh, and the next Prime Minister of Canada might be one of their prime suspects. Coincidences were piling up, and no one was turning out to be who they seemed.

“Good morning, sugar.” Including Robbie.

“Hey, Robbie.”

She heard him pour a cup of coffee and walk over to join her.

“Well, what do you think?” He sat on the couch beside her. He was still in his pyjamas and robe.

“Robbie, I think we need to find ‘the Institute’.”

“Sounds good.”

“But I also think we need to talk to Ida Greer.”

“Why?”

“Well, I keep wondering about what those barracudas said about her last night. Not only does she seem like our kind of person, but she’s connected, too. She might actually know something.”

“About what? The Pearce’s don’t run in that crowd.”

“No, about ‘the Institute’.”

Robbie raised his eyebrows. “Maybe.” He didn’t seem convinced.

Marcie walked over to the desk, picked up the telephone, and dialled the office. The phone rang twice and then picked up.

“Noel and Associates.”

“Jeff, go out and call me back on 212-N8Y-2210.”

“Got it.”

She hung up and sat by the telephone waiting. Minutes later, it rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” It was Jeff.

“Hi.”

“Hey, you made the news! No one’s got any good footage, though. A roofcam caught you from the top of a high-rise, but it was fuzzy. The cab driver almost didn’t get out of the taxi.”

“Is he okay?”

“Sure. Some scratches. He talks about you and Robbie as if you’re some kind of super heroes or something. That must’ve been some fight.”

“Not really. Mostly we ran away a lot. Listen, Jeff, can you give me Ida Greer’s number? I need to talk to her.”

“Sure, hang on a sec. She didn’t have anything to do with the attack, did she?”

Marcie paused. Greer was pretty quick to hand over those tickets. No. No, I don’t think so. Doesn’t add up. she couldn’t put her finger on why. “No, I don’t think so, Jeff. I just think she has some information I need.”

“Here it is. Her assistant’s name is Marshall and the code is 416-1PY-5920.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

“Do you still want me to stay in the loft?”

“Please. Make it look lived in, as if I’m still there. Keep the blinds closed and order in, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Talk to you soon.” Marcie hung up and dialled Greer’s code immediately.

“Marshall Penfold. May I help you?”

“Mr. Penfold, this is Marcie Noel of Noel and Associates. I’m wondering if Ms. Greer has a couple of minutes to spare for me.”

“Oh, hello Ms. Noel. I’m afraid Ms. Greer is out of town for a few days. She may not pick up messages, so it might take her a while to return your call.”

Marcie hid her disappointment. “No problem, Mr. Penfold. Would you leave a message?”

“Sure.”

Marcie gave him the code for the room telephone. “Thanks a lot.”

Ten minutes later the phone rang.

“Marcie Noel.”

“Marcie,” said a cultured woman’s voice. “Ida Greer. So nice to talk to you again. What can I do for you?”

Marcie was pleasantly surprised. Penfold must have called Greer. “Ms. Greer, so kind of you to return my call. I have a request that may seem a bit unusual, but I’m hoping you’ll have the time to honour it.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to meet with you to discuss ‘the Institute’.”

Greer only paused for a millisecond, but Marcie heard it.

“What institute, Marcie?”

“That’s what I want to ask you about.”

“And why would you think I know anything?”

“Because the barracudas at the fundraiser tell me you know everything.”

“And do you always believe what you hear, Marcie?”

“Absolutely not.”

Another short pause. “Well, coincidentally, I’m also in New York City doing some shopping. I’m sure I can spare a few minutes for you. Otherwise, you can wait until I return next week.”

God, another coincidence. “That’s lucky, Ms. Greer. How does lunch sound?”

“Lunch sounds fine. I like to eat at one. And call me Ida.”

“Fine, Ida. Is the Jean Georges in the Trump Tower all right with you?”

“Certainly.”

“Thank you, Ida.”

“I haven’t done anything yet, Marcie. Good day.” The line went dead.

Marcie hung up. Robbie took the phone to reserve a table at Jean Georges, and then they spent the intervening four hours shopping. What else does one do in New York City? Of course, she hadn’t been able to pack, so the shopping was necessary. Just perhaps not quite so much of it was necessary.

When she returned to the hotel, she put on her new white suit for the lunch and met Robbie in the main room of their suite at five to one. He had pulled a suit cut leather jacket over his jeans and shirt. He almost looked presentable. Wow.

“What is up with you?”

“Gotta keep up appearances, sugar.”

They rode down the elevator, walked to the restaurant and were in their seats at one. Ida Greer arrived shortly after. She was a tall, thin woman of probably fifty years with a youthful attitude and a fire in her eyes. Marcie liked her immediately.

They exchanged a few pleasantries and ordered their meals. The menu was full of interesting classic French cuisine with a strong eastern twist. The food was a little while coming, but when it finally arrived, it was exquisite, not surprising for a chef with such a reputation. Marcie kept the talk light while they ate. She waited until coffee came to broach the real topic of conversation.

“Ida, I asked you here to find out what you might know about ‘the Institute’. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Greer looked rueful. “The older you get, the more you know and eventually you know a little bit about everything, especially when you shut up and listen. I’m afraid I have an eidetic memory, and it can be a burden because most people are very careless with their secrets. They let something slip here, another detail there, and the next thing I know I’ve got it all figured out. Ironically, I’m not interested in people’s secrets or the burden they can represent.”

“Is that why you shun society?”

“In part. But mostly because I can’t stand the buggers.” Marcie laughed. Ida and Robbie did not. Ida continued: “Now, Marcie, you must understand that ‘the Institute’ is an ugly secret. And it isn’t a kind place. Not a kind place at all, at least what I know of it anyway.”

“How did you hear about it?”

“From a drunken friend, like everything else. Power and privilege – along with a little alcohol – can stupefy some. They size you up and assume you’re just as interested as they are in preserving your position. They can’t imagine you’d disagree with some of the ridiculous things they do.”

“No.”

“But I have to say, sometimes I do tend to keep quiet about the secrets I hear. And that’s my own personal hell, Marcie. But on the topic of the Institute, I think I will speak, though I know little and the information is dangerous. Human rights are being ignored, so take care how you use this knowledge. I think the issue is set to explode, if you understand my meaning. And one never wants to be too near the epicentre, does one?”

“No, ma’am.”

“‘The Institute’ is the Eastdown Institute, north of Toronto, just outside the town of Aurora on St. John’s Side Road. I don’t know the exact address. Apparently, they’re apprehending people, Marcie, on what criteria I don’t know, but I do know it isn’t random. They’re apprehending people and they’re performing tests on them. From what my associate told me, it all seems quite gruesome. Assault certainly and, of course, an assault on human rights. However, not only the Canadian government, but the American as well, sanction the actions of the Institute, along with fourteen other countries. That’s all I know, Marcie. I caution you again; the man who told me this is dead.” She paused while she took a sip of her coffee. “He died of heart failure.”

“Don’t we all,” said Marcie.

They finished the lunch amicably enough, but Marcie was desperate to leave. She wanted to go and check out this Eastdown Institute right away. Perhaps she could get the papers involved. If Helen Pearce was in Eastdown, Marcie was going to do whatever she could to get her out.

Ida Greer left only a few minutes later. Immediately, Marcie started tapping the table impatiently as she waited for the cheque.

“Slowly, sugar. Slow down.”

“We have a lot to do, Robbie.”

“Yes, but we won’t do it all today. And I think we need to take it slow. Sugar, this sounds bigger than us.”

You’re right. Marcie felt a twinge of fear. The bill came and Robbie signed it off. They left the restaurant immediately and went up to the room where Marcie changed back into her jeans and shirt. She also pulled on a new pair of cowboy boots, beautifully tooled in real leather. Too much money, but she didn’t care. She walked out to the main room.

“Coffee, sugar?” Marcie could smell the fresh pot. Robbie was hunched over at his desk and didn’t look up from his laptop.

“Yeah, thanks.” She went over and poured herself a cup. “Look, you’re right. I need to take it slow. I’d be going off half-cocked.” Robbie stopped typing and looked at her.

“Sure, but what was your first impulse?”

“I wanted to get a look at the place, just to get a feel for it.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“Of course, then, I wanted to knock on the door, arrest everybody, and free the prisoners.”

“Thanks G.I. Jane.”

“You asked.”

“I don’t think we should do a fly-by. I bet there’s somebody keeping track of all air traffic.”

“I agree. A ground car, then?”

“Yes.”

“I hate them.”

“Not this one, you won’t.”

“Hmph. You know what? I have an idea. Are you logged on?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me borrow that computer for a minute.” She checked her webmail and found a note from Tracy. “Whoosh.”

“What’s up?”

“I got that condo, for a healthy piece of change.”

“You seem overjoyed.”

“It’s just not a priority anymore, I suppose.”

“Well, congrats. Listen, I know a few people who might be able to help us, but we’ll have to come back here to meet with them after we finish scouting Eastdown.”

“No problem. I like it in New York. Nobody shoots at you.”

“Ha ha. I’ll make some calls.”

“And I think we need a little excuse to be up in Aurora. I think I need to do a little more real estate shopping, don’t you?”

“Oh sure, sugar.” Robbie picked up the hotel phone.

Marcie spent a few minutes checking real estate websites and then sent an instant message to a condo sales office in Aurora, Ontario. An answer came back right away. Marcie typed back a response and sat back.

“Okay, we have an appointment for four-thirty.”

“That’s tight,” Robbie said as he put down his phone.

“I told them we might be late. We’ll make it.”

Marcie logged off and handed the computer back to Robbie. They left immediately.

They were back at Robbie’s condo in Toronto by three thirty where they grabbed a snack and then took the elevator down to the basement ground car garage. Garages stink. Marcie couldn’t help wrinkling her nose at the smell of gasoline. She was used to cell powered PAs, clean and quiet, but she followed Robbie without comment. He walked up to a small red vehicle with sleek lines, very similar to a PA.

“It looks like a Porsche.”

“That’s because it is a Porsche.”

“A Porsche ground car? They haven’t made these things for twenty years.”

“This car is almost a hundred years old. Get in.”

Porsche, and many of the other sports car manufacturers, had taken a huge hit in twenty-forty when the governments of many countries outlawed selling new performance combustion engine vehicles for general use, just like that, and threatened to outlaw combustion engines, period. The condition of the air on the globe had become critical. Drastic measures were called for. Some companies folded but others, like Porsche, started building high quality, luxury, cell-powered family cars. They stayed in their niche, but redefined their product to suit new attitudes.

Adapting seemed to be one of the company’s strong suits. Porsche was the first ground car manufacturer to jump into the PA market as soon as the patents cleared about thirty years before. As is often the case, Leonard Parker, the original inventor of the PA technology, got nowhere with it, mainly because of the amount of infrastructure needed for the masses to pilot the little planes safely. This was the time before Control.   Parker had neither the resources nor the salesmanship to build up the capital necessary.    It wasn’t until the major car companies pitched in to fund the development of Control that the concept of personal flying vehicles took off. Before they did that, however, Leonard Parker had to be bought out. He was originally hired to run the development corporation but was quickly voted out of his job by the major shareholders. Leonard Parker died infamous but poor, living off a modest retirement income.

Marcie got in. This vehicle was comfortable and sleek in its interior design. She liked it. Robbie pulled out a set of old style keys, put one in the lock and turned it to start the car. The engine revved and then purred.

“Built before they took the teeth out of them,” Robbie told her. “This car’s only had five owners.” He stroked the dashboard, “And everybody loved you, didn’t they?” Marcie blinked. He was talking to a car. She wasn’t sure how many more revelations about him she could take.

“We’d better go or we’ll miss the appointment with the real estate agent.”

“Sure,” he said. He backed out of the parking spot and drove the vehicle up a ramp, out a security door, and onto Niagara Street. He turned right and drove to Bathurst, and then turned left and went down to Lakeshore Road. There was a lot of bicycle traffic, but little else.

He drove east along Lakeshore past condo building after condo building. You couldn’t see the lake at all. What a horrible way to travel. Then, he turned onto Bayview Avenue and drove north. There was no one on the road. Half an hour later, they jogged over to Leslie Street at 19thAvenue.

Not long after that, they turned left onto St. John’s Side Road. Marcie kept her eyes peeled looking for Eastdown. They came up to it fairly quickly: a small building that had been added onto an old farmhouse. The sign was understated; in fact, the whole place seemed unassuming, serene, quite pretty and neat, especially with all the greenery. If the land developers earlier in the century had had their way, the whole area would have been full of subdivisions. But, the Institute had been built on the Moraine, an area that was home to many species of animals threatened by the unchecked development at the time, not to mention the threat to the water supply for the whole of the city of Toronto. Governments had stepped in to curb expansion, so even this close to the city centre, there were fields and meadows, no McDonalds anywhere. But, somehow, despite bylaws and regulations, the Institute had been built recently on the site of an old farm and, subsequently, enjoyed the privacy of having no close neighbours.   There were maybe twenty PAs in a parking lot built for thirty and no one in sight except a security guard in the gatehouse.

For the benefit of anyone watching them, they continued west along the side road and turned off a few kilometres later in the centre of Aurora at a sign advertising a new condo development. Robbie and Marcie went into the Presentation Office and sat through the complete sales pitch. The places were large and sunny, but Marcie told the woman she wanted to think about it because she was addicted to downtown living. They thanked the saleswoman and left. So, if anyone asked, she’d taken the trip up to investigate real estate in Aurora – not on a case at all.

They drove back the way they came and Marcie got another look. Nothing new to add, except she had a nice view of some gardens on the east side of the building. They drove all the way back to the city, pulled into the underground garage, and parked the vehicle.

“Well, do you feel better?”

“It doesn’t seem like the kind of place where people are being held and tortured, Robbie. It didn’t seem threatening at all. It looks like a spa or a retreat.”

“On the surface.”

“Yes.”

“Well how far down does it go, sugar? How deep? There’s always a lot you can’t see.” Robbie the philosopher.

He got out of the vehicle. Marcie followed. He pulled a remote out of his pocket and activated his PA waiting on the roof. It would be ready and idling as soon as they got there. Cool. They rode the elevator to the top floor and went out through a nice roof lobby. They walked out onto the pad and over to Robbie’s PA.

Robbie and Marcie got into the vehicle and closed their doors. Marcie sat back and prepared her stomach as Robbie said clearly: ‘New York City’. The PA lifted off but didn’t climb to the international lanes. Instead, it headed off southwest in the slow lanes. Robbie swore. She’d never heard him swear before.

Very few people knew how to commandeer a PA, and even fewer bothered to do it, because you invariably got the owner with the vehicle. And that’s just no fun. But in this case, they probably wanted the owner and his passenger.

Robbie spoke in a clear voice: “Override, override. RGALL15.” The vehicle did not hover as it was supposed to during an ‘override’. Robbie tried again. “Override, override RGALL15.” Nothing. Voice activations had been turned off.

“What about the failsafe?”

“Disabled.”

“Well, I can crack it.”

“No you can’t.”

“Come on, I…”

“Can you see a keyboard anywhere, sugar?”

“Oh.” They had taken the keyboard.

Marcie tapped her neck and said “Home.” Nothing. The signal was blocked. For safety reasons, PAs could jam any radio signal but their own when necessary. This feature ensured that the Control signal was guaranteed to get through in times of crisis. But in the case of a hijacking, the feature is used to keep the inhabitants quiet. It was an odd experience being trapped in a PA. Marcie had never felt so helpless. At least we’re not travelling in the direction of Eastdown. Then, she thought about the guy with the slicked back hair and the gun and she felt even more helpless.

Monday, June 28, 2083. 11:00 p.m.

They were in the air for five hours while the PA executed a series of small jumps. Clearly, the kidnappers did not want the journey to be tracked by Control. Control allowed no vehicle into anything but the lowest lanes without clearance which required on-the-spot identification of the pilot and confirmation of the pilot’s ID code and password – in part to verify the pilot’s ability to navigate the stream he was attempting to enter and in part to link the PA into the Control system, thereby guaranteeing that there would be no collisions. Early in their history, PA collisions were common and, despite each PA being outfitted with its own parachute, some crashes had been disastrous, not only to the people in the air, but also to the third parties on the ground.

So, obviously in order to avoid detection, this PA had been programmed to take the slow ride in the low lanes. How they got past the border without pilot confirmation was a trick Marcie wanted to learn. She would find out how their kidnappers did it later, assuming there was a later. They came down finally in the middle of a farmyard, a few hundred feet from an old, greying, clapboard farmhouse.

“We’re somewhere in the Midwest. I’d guess Arizona, but I’m not sure. I know the eastern seaboard by sight, but not out here.” Without the keyboard or voice commands, they’d been unable to call up the nav system to follow their path.

“We could be anywhere.”

“No, that’s pretty dry out there, sugar. Utah. Arizona. The Colorado hills. Something like that.”

The vehicle set down lightly not far from a stately shade tree, popped its doors, and then powered down. Though it was dark, they could see five people with shotguns covering every angle of the vehicle. Robbie shrugged and got out, so Marcie followed. You have to know when you’re beaten. That way you get to live to fight another day.

“Over to the house,” said a twenty-something man in overalls and a checkered shirt. He looked like he’d stepped out of a rustic painting. They all did. Robbie, Marcie and the PA were out of place in this scene. The young man turned and led the way. Robbie and Marcie behaved. There were four other guns pointed at their backs. They went up on the porch, opened the screen door which groaned just as one might expect, and went inside. As they did, Marcie looked back and saw the PA being driven into an old weather-beaten barn.

They came into a small entrance hall. There were stairs going up in front of them. To their right was a dining area and, judging by the good smells, the kitchen beyond. Marcie’s tummy rumbled. They hadn’t had a proper meal in a long time. To their left, they could see a large living room in which every wall was lined with bookshelves. They followed the young man down the central hallway past the stairs to the back of the house. They came to a small hallway that led to the backdoor on one side and the kitchen on the other. They did a one-eighty turn to access the cellar door. The young man led them down the stairs into a basement, and then through a trapdoor, which stood open, and finally down a steep set of stairs into the cold cellar. At least that’s what Marcie thought until the man turned on a light. In front of her and between shelves full of potatoes, was a newish looking elevator door. She blinked.

“This is what you get for asking a lot of questions,” said the man. But he wasn’t being unkind – in fact, he winked – and he was resting his rifle casually on his arm, probably relying on the shock to keep his lambs in check. “I’m Jason.”

“Marcie Noel. Nice to meet you,” Marcie mumbled. Robbie was silent. His face was a clean mask. He was livid to the point of violence and trying to control himself.

The elevator arrived. Marcie half expected it to ding, but it didn’t. They stepped inside and Jason said clearly, “Level six.”

There were twenty buttons marked on the panel. Twenty? ‘You never know how deep it goes.’ counted fifteen seconds before the elevator beeped the first level. They stopped at Level 6 and the doors opened.

Marcie saw a small, bare anteroom with three reinforced steel doors, one on each wall – no signs, no instructions. Jason turned left and punched in a code to open the door. He walked through and Marcie followed with Robbie behind. The corridor wasn’t long, maybe thirty feet, but there were six doors in it, two on the left, three on the right, and one at the end of the corridor. They walked the length and went through the door on the end. It opened onto a wide hallway, with dimmed lighting. For the late hour? Marcie didn’t know.

They turned left and walked to end of this hallway, footfalls echoing on the tile floors. The place had a bureaucratic feel, like an insurance company office. They walked into an empty waiting room. There was a large reception desk at which sat a young, professional looking man. On the opposite wall, a few chairs were set up and there was a door that, presumably, led to the inner office.

They walked to the desk and the young man nodded at their escort and said pleasantly, “Jason, take them right in. He’s waiting for you.” The man hit a button on the impressive control panel on his desk.

“Thanks,” said Jason, as he walked past the desk. Marcie was too nonplussed to say anything. She didn’t feel like a prisoner, but she didn’t really know what to think. She decided to play along and see what would happen.

Jason opened the inner door. They walked in as a man of about fifty stood up behind his desk. Jason gestured that they should continue in. Marcie complied and Robbie reluctantly followed.

“So glad you got here in one piece,” said the older man as he walked around the desk to greet them. There was something of the politician in him, but without the need to ingratiate. “Dr. John Stellan, how do you do?”

Marcie shook his hand. “Marcie Noel. How do you do? And this is Robbie…”

“McLean, yes, so happy to meet you Robbie.” Robbie shook his hand grudgingly. Marcie could tell he was still angry, but starting to settle down. Clearly, they were in an extraordinary circumstance and his curiosity was piqued. He was interested in seeing where it was all going.

“So,” said Marcie. “Where exactly are we anyway?”

“Well,” said Stellan. “Sit down and I’ll tell you what I can.”

‘What I can’ read ‘all I’m prepared to tell you’. Marcie decided to listen and watch carefully, but she didn’t think she was going to get the whole story. She looked around Stellan’s office. He had a large desk clear of personal mementos, and almost clear of paper. A full wall of vidscreens and other electronic equipment was currently off.

“Ms. Noel, Mr. McLean, welcome to Origin. Do you prefer Grant, Mr. McLean?” Robbie shrugged. “No? Origin is a large complex, one I hope you’ll take the time to get to know personally.” Marcie said nothing. She couldn’t commit to anything without hearing him out first.

“Origin is a private research facility set up by a man named Harold Winter about eighty years ago. Winter made a lot of money in pharmaceuticals, well, billions. Near the end of his life, he became obsessed with ridding the world of disease. He decided to set up an organization to do research. Unfortunately, he was also a little insane. He thought that the government, driven by other pharmaceutical companies, would try to sabotage his work. So, this place is a secret. And, it has remained a secret all this time. We’ve worked to keep the research going, and we’ve not been unsuccessful, let me tell you.

“But now, Winter’s fears have come true. The government is after our secrets and our people. We cannot come forward for fear of being rounded up ourselves. We’re powerless. We’ve been labelled a terrorist organization. We are hunted by security forces in sixteen countries and, once caught, we are subjected to testing, stripped of any pretence of human rights.”

“Is that why you feel it’s okay to take away the rights of others yourself?” Robbie’s voice was almost sarcastic. Stellan looked down at his desk. He had no answer. Marcie decided to change the subject.

“You’re the group that uses a swastika as a signature?”

“Yes.”

“Not a wise choice.”

“I know, but Winter set it all up that way. There’s an initiative to change it.”

“I think you should.”

“Maybe you’d like to tell us why we’re here?” asked Robbie in a controlled way. He obviously wanted to keep them on topic.

Stellan looked at him directly. “We shouldn’t have hijacked you. Forgive us. But our people have been watching you for about ten days now, ever since you were hired by Greg Pearce, and we felt you were going to be picked up by the other side soon, just like he was.”

“Fine. Who has Greg Pearce?”

“The government, almost certainly,” said Stellan, “and just like him, the government would’ve let you rot in jail, or worse.”

“I have a good lawyer.” Marcie was feeling a bit petulant.

“A good lawyer wouldn’t be able to help you. A good lawyer wouldn’t be able to find you and then a good lawyer would make a stink. Then, he’d be rounded up just like you were, along with all your friends and family. It’s getting dirty.”

“Fine. But why are we here?” Robbie again, very focused.

“Ms. Noel, you’re looking for Helen Pearce?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve been looking for her for over a dozen years. She’s my niece. For various reasons, I lost her when my sister and brother-in-law were killed in a car accident. We sometimes have trouble keeping track of those who have left Origin. My brother-in-law decided to move out when my sister found out she was pregnant. He told me he didn’t want his daughter to grow up under black clouds. Now, she’s in Eastdown and the sky couldn’t be any darker. I mean to get her out. You already know about the Institute?”

Marcie nodded her head. “But there’s something else going on here, something you’re not telling me, Dr. Stellan. I believe you when you say the government is after you, and I believe people are being rounded up. We’ve been able to identify dozens of folks gone missing in the last few years. But my investigation also tells me that these people are being sent to Eastdown and subjected to testing. I might expect torture, perhaps, for their secrets, yes? But no, even you used the word ‘testing’. These people have no secrets, do they Stellan? They arethe secret.” Stellan remained quiet and Marcie continued on. “You have to tell me the whole story, Stellan, or I simply can’t help you. You may think that because you’re the enemy of my enemy, you’re my friend. This isn’t always the case.”

Stellan sighed. He suddenly looked like a man shouldering all the world’s cares. “These people, Ms. Noel, my people, we’re different from the rest of the world. But we pose no threat, Ms. Noel. We mean no harm. We’re still human beings, and we deserve to be accorded the same rights and freedoms of all human beings. But we are not accorded these rights and freedoms. We are jailed without trial. We are subjected to disgusting experiments. We all live in fear for our lives.”

Marcie licked her lips. “How different?”

Stellan paused. “I’m not supposed to divulge certain pieces of information without approval from a committee. Hard for you to believe? We believe that decision-making is stronger in groups. But for various reasons, I haven’t been able to confirm permission to reveal our history yet. I’m going to have to force the issue, though I’m sure she expects it. Come with me.” She? Who’s she?

Unceremoniously, he stood and walked out of the room. Marcie and Robbie followed. They went to a new bank of elevators and Stellan said clearly: “Elevator, down.” The thing beeped. Moments later, the elevator came and they stepped in.

“Elevator, Level 7.” The elevator doors closed. Stellan continued, “Marcie, we’re so secretive, it’s become a way of life. And most folks are happy with the way things are and they see no need to change. From their point of view, we have everything we need: food, water, shelter, and power. So they don’t see a need to share the information of our existence. I didn’t bring you here lightly.”
“I don’t contest that, I…”

The elevator doors opened and the conversation paused as they stepped out. Stellan turned back to Marcie. “I’m sorry. I know this is new to you, but I ask you not to debate but to listen. We have so few guests here, Marcie, that everyone we meet knows you’re here, will recognize you on sight, knows your name and the names of all your staff back home. They know where you live and a good many of them have probably memorized your phone code and your address. Everyone here knows what you’re capable of, and everyone here will try to help you as much as they can. We haven’t had guests here, Marcie, in over twenty years. But I believe these are trying times. And, I believe we need new answers.”

Stellan turned around and walked to the end of a short hallway. Marcie and Robbie followed. Something was niggling in the back of Marcie’s head, like she was trying to make a connection. They stopped at a reception desk.

“Nancy, will you tell Alva I’m here, please. Ask her if she has a few minutes, would you?”

“Certainly, Dr. Stellan. She’s expecting you, actually.”

When Stellan turned back to Marcie and Robbie he had a wry look on his face. “We’re at the offices of Origin’s Director of Operations, but mind, it’s a political title as well as an administrative one, so in effect, she’s our prime minister or our president. We don’t hold elections like they do outside. Our politicians and senior public servants are one in the same thing. Alva Lew has been running this facility for almost twenty years. She means to step down as soon as a competent successor is identified.”

“Then the new person will be appointed?’

“Elected, we call it, but it has much more to do with proven ability and competence to govern than it does about election campaigns. Usually the person who wins is too busy working to actually campaign. It’s all fought on the Reels.” The inner door opened. “I’ll explain later.”

A thin woman with olive skin and oval eyes emerged from the inner office. She was impeccably dressed and moving very well for her obvious age – Marcie guessed she was around seventy-five. “John, how are you?”

“Good, Alva, good. Please, I would like you to meet Marcie Noel and Robbie McLean. Marcie and Robbie, Alva Lew, our Director.”

“Yes, pleased to meet you.” She didn’t really look that pleased. “Come in, will you?”

She led them into her office. Marcie noted with surprise that there was absolutely no ceremony, no pomp and circumstance associated with this meeting. Wait a minute, who was Stellan that he could go visit the Director any time he felt like it?

The office was about twice the size of Dr. Stellan’s but not ostentatious. It was warmer, without the banks of vidscreens and other toys. They all sat looking at Alva Lew. Age had taken its toll on a woman who was probably beautiful in her youth, but her eyes were still clear and bright.

“Alva, I’ve come to ask your permission to break protocols.” Alva was already nodding.

“Yes. I suspected as much.” She spoke lightly, but in a resigned fashion. “I will formally register my opposition, though I honestly don’t see any other option. Not to worry, John. You were the one who said this would happen.”

“Thank-you. Alva.

“Is that all, John? I’m a bit weary and it’s late.” She stood. They all stood with her. “You are welcome here Ms. Noel, Mr. McLean. I hope you can help us. John, you’ve probably forgotten to feed them. Get them some food. They might not have your energy or singleness of mind.”

“Yes, Alva.”

“You have yourself a nice night.”

“Yes, Alva, thank-you. Good night.” Alva sat down and focused her attention on her paperwork. The very short meeting was over. Stellan looked at Marcie and Robbie pointedly. Both mumbled their good nights and followed Stellan out of the room.

He said nothing as he led them back to the elevator. Stellan must be important, but he has no escort, even with ‘guests’ from the outside.

They stepped into the elevator and Stellan said, “Level 19.” Again, he fell silent. The elevator made its journey and the doors opened. “The Promenade Level. It’s beautiful, no?” He stepped out, but Marcie stopped a moment to take it all in. She could see a huge atrium, certainly hundreds of feet wide and high. Around the atrium were rings of balconies, many alight with the soft wavering glow of candles or lanterns. In the centre of the floor of the atrium was a wide road, down which many people were walking despite the late hour. Some were browsing the few stalls left open, some going about their business. A few small sleek, electrical robots buzzed this way and that.

“This is like a colony. Only, it’s a colony on Earth.” Robbie was shaking his head.

“I think Winter originally imagined that we’d live on the moon. Though how he thought we’d all get there, I don’t know. We’re completely self-sustaining. We don’t even bring air in or vent pollutants out to the outside. Don’t worry; we’re not an invading force, Marcie. We’re human. We belong here. Come.”

They walked down The Promenade. Everyone was aware of their passing. Marcie noticed these people seemed taller than most. Many were dressed in lively colours; others in neutrals. A lot of the women were as tall as Marcie, and a large proportion of both men and women had curly or wavy hair. Most people seemed to move gracefully, as if everyone on the street had studied karate the way she had. There were folks of every colour and background. Some of the men were massive, so Robbie didn’t look out of place as he often did on city streets.

Stellan walked purposefully to one of the stalls, which turned out not to be a stall at all, but an entrance to a restaurant. Thank goodness. They walked up to the maitre d’.

“Dr. Stellan,” he said immediately, a smile on his face. “You honour us with your presence.”

“Luke, I’m here almost every night. You don’t have to suck up to me.”

“But Dr. Stellan, you don’t bring Outsiders here every night.” He turned to Marcie and Robbie. “Come in, come in! Welcome, welcome!” Luke herded them into the restaurant where a table waited for them. Their glasses were filled with water, drinks orders taken, and menus left at each place with so much efficiency, it was almost surreal. The menu listed some dishes Marcie had heard of and a lot she hadn’t. They were quiet as they all studied the menu, partially because Robbie and Marcie really had to study the menu and partially because Stellan was obviously not interested in talking yet.

They received their drinks, placed their orders, and then sat back. Marcie and Robbie were uncharacteristically passive as they waited for Stellan to speak. He finally did.

“Well, I set my course today and the citizens will certainly have choices to make over the next few weeks. Alva is dead set against what I’m doing here. She believes the problem will resolve itself and she believes we cannot risk exposure to the outside. She wants us to avoid direct confrontation at all costs. I disagree. It must’ve been hard for her to grant my request to fill you in. I wish I’d had more time to go through channels. I hate offending her. She so treasures loyalty.”

Marcie sat back and thought. Clearly, there were nuances of behaviour here that she could not yet read. Just like in Tokyo. She’d visited there once and been astounded at the number of protocols and rules, the inescapable formality of life in that city. But Tokyo was a city like this one: built vertically, the concept of public space fuzzy at best, everyone crammed in. One simply had to be polite.

“She didn’t seem upset to me,” Marcie said finally.

“Well,” said Stellan. “Done is done. And, now, I must tell you our big secret.”

“Okay, shoot.” This from Robbie who clearly had had enough.

“We’re not homo sapiens.”

“What do you mean, you’re not human?” Robbie didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused.

“We’re human, just not homo sapiens. We’re a new species.”

Robbie said nothing but raised an eyebrow. Marcie decided to hold her piece as well. She felt frightened, but she was trying to grapple with that little voice in the back of her head. Some important information was on the way.

Stellan continued: “Winter’s strategies and experiments took us farther than even he ever imagined. Around the turn of this century, more and more diseases were spontaneously crossing the animal/human barrier. He had to get creative. He started splicing genes, throwing in completely new compounds. He finally produced people who could withstand illness, but in the process, he created a new species. A new kind of human being. We’ve taken to calling ourselves fortunatusbecause we’re luckier than sapiens. The designation is a bit of a misnomer, just like sapiensmeaning ‘wise’, but it suffices as well as any other term, I suppose. We differ from homo sapiensin many ways, but we’re as closely related to sapiensas the Neanderthal were. We share about ninety-nine percent of our DNA with sapiens. But we are different. In general we collaborate better, we’re healthier, we’re taller, and, as I said, we’re luckier than sapiens.”

Marcie and Robbie were stunned to silence. Political conspiracy, she could handle. Greed, lust, stuff like that. She was used to dealing in these things. But this news was far bigger than any she’d heard in her whole life. Stellan was respectfully silent. Finally, Marcie collected herself. She wanted to know more.

“What do you mean luckier?” asked Marcie.

“In a situation in which we have no information to guide us, we guess the right answer approximately sixty percent of the time.”

“A few hundred years ago, Carl Jung recorded that Man, I mean sapiens, guesses right about fifty-five percent of the time.” This from Robbie. Marcie turned to look at him. Where do you pick up these things?

“Yes. And our ability to guess right more often does give us an edge.”

“But this collaborative advantage must be incredible. For example: here, I see no street signs, no ceremony for VIPs, and most importantly, no tipping the maitre d’.” She smiled.

Stellan couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “Yes, well, there’s no money in the first place. Resources are allocated on an as-needed basis. That’s all.”

Marcie nodded. Astounding. A new species of human. I’m taking this remarkably well. food arrived.

Marcie took a bite of the seafood salad she’d ordered. “This is real crab.”

“Oh yes.”

“I thought you said you were self-sustaining. Wouldn’t you have to fly this stuff in?”

“We have subterranean aquariums here, subterranean farms of all descriptions. We’re not bothered about the seasons. We continually grow what we need.”

Robbie was toying with his food. “Let’s say we believe you about this new species thing. Why are you telling us this? Why do you expect us to help you?”

Stellan became serious. “Well, we think you may help us because we think you’re one of us. We think you both may be fortunatus.”

“Hmmmm.” The back of Marcie’s brain went clunk. It was something her father said once when she came home crying from school. The kids were so mean sometimes that Marcie cried, not as much out of hurt feelings, but out of frustration.

“Why can’t everyone just get along?” She had sobbed to her father as she sat on his knee. She must have been five or six.

“Marcie, I want you to remember that you’re special. That you’re different from your friends, and that you’re going to be a very special lady when you grow up. Try not to let them bother you. Honey, they don’t know any better and you do.”

Was her father hinting at the fact that the whole family was different?

“You’ve never been in hospital, have you Marcie? You Robbie?”

They were both shaking their heads.

“Have you seen a doctor once a year? A dentist?”

No. Marcie had always enjoyed great health. She thought it was good genes. She hadn’t realized how good. Stellan was nodding his head, knowingly.

“We also want you because, if we’re right and you are fortunatus, you’re unique for our race. You’re both in violent fields. You’re both well-versed and talented in areas that fortunatus usually are not. We need you because we’re going to have to escalate things. We’ve just recently received a communication that details the maltreatment of the people in Eastdown. We can’t leave them there any longer. So, we need you to break Helen, and all of the other inmates, out of Eastdown.

“We know you won’t commit to doing this unless you’re sure you’re one of us. We can do the tests with just one drop of blood and a genetic analysis. You can know in ten minutes.”

“You’re right. I’d want to know for sure.” But part of her already knew.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Thanks for reading Chapter 4. If you liked this chapter and want to encourage Jacqui to post more chapters and write more books, please click on one of the sponsored links on this page. Thanks!

Jacqui Burke is a Freelance Director/Writer/Theatrical Teacher. At time of posting, projects include: Wrong For Each Other for Encore Entertainment, opening late March; and The Mayan Prediction, this years Toronto Homeschoolers Kidsplay, a one night only event, June 20. Up to date information on Jacqui's projects can be found at her website.

Thanks, as always, to John for his ongoing support and Brenda for her ongoing inspiration.

The Pretender - Chapter 3

2012-03-08T06:46:00.000-08:00

Sunday, June 27, 2083. 7:00 a.m.

Helen Pearce woke. The room was alight with the morning sun making the stark walls seem almost cheery, but it didn’t help her feel any better. She lay motionless on her cot, staring up at the ceiling. She’d endured weeks of solitude and the loneliness was taking its toll. She’d never liked being on her own. She’d always considered it a blessing that she’d found Greg and they got along so well. They’d spent most of their free time together. She was never alone as long as he was near.

A small sliding hatch at the base of her cell door opened without warning and a breakfast tray slid into the room. She looked at it without interest, but eventually her stomach won and she got up out of the cot. She was weak. Tired all the time. She could barely get across the few feet to the door. At least the food is good, when I feel like eating. She carried the tray back to her cot and sat down. There were bacon and eggs with porridge, coffee and cream, toast, and orange juice. Whoever they were, they certainly wanted her to stay healthy. She sighed and picked up the spoon.

As she dipped her spoon into her porridge, she noticed something odd: A small slip of paper the size of a fortune from a fortune cookie buried in the porridge. She carefully pulled it out. It read, “You are not alone.” The words hit Helen like a shock; she felt it through her whole system. Someone was out there and was going to help her. Probably Greg. She knew he’d never abandon her. She wasn’t going to spend her whole life in this cage. She scooped up the slip of paper with a spoonful of porridge and she ate it up. Then, she ate the rest of the food with gusto.

After breakfast, she didn’t lie down in her cot again as she usually did. Instead, she got down on the cold tile floor and started doing sit-ups. She worked out in the tiny space afforded her by her cell until the knock came for her time in the bathroom. Another day was about to begin. She wondered what today’s tests would be and then she realised she didn’t care. She felt rejuvenated, ready to handle anything.

She followed the guard down the hall to the bathroom. She never saw any other prisoners in the place, but the evidence of others was tantalizing. The showers had been used. The bath mats and floor were already wet. The laundry hamper was half full with soiled clothes. She showered and changed into a new set of blue coveralls, which was all the prisoners – they called her a ‘Subject’ – were allowed to wear. She emerged from the bathroom and was escorted down the hall to Testing by two guards. She enjoyed this part of walk because of the view of the gardens and the farmers’ fields beyond. The day was glorious; the gardens well tended and full of beautiful flowers. Cows were standing in the pastures in the distance. Then, all too quickly, they walked past the windows.

They stopped in front of Laboratory #3 and Helen relaxed a little. This was the psych testing room. She was unlikely to see Ryan today.

Dr. Lawrence Ryan was the doctor in charge of the facility. He wasn’t a kind man. He never spoke directly to the Subjects and always wore a surgical mask when he was around them as if he was sure he could catch some dread disease from close contact. He ordered some of the most heinous testing Helen had ever thought possible. Just two weeks ago, she was left in a freezer until she passed out. She suffered various ill effects from that episode, including frostbite. Apparently, her system had slowed so much she almost died.

But, as Helen walked into Laboratory #3 this morning, her spirits sank. There was Ryan, hiding behind his inevitable surgical mask and, beside him, Dr. Hans Randall, looking a little grim. They were standing behind a small table that had been placed in the middle of the lab. There were two chairs at the table and a deck of cards and a notepad and pen sitting on top.

“Strap the subject to her chair.” Ryan’s voice was cold.

Helen toyed with fighting. She’d always been compliant; it was her nature. Extreme responses or violence confused her. But right now, just this minute, and perhaps it was the note she’d found, she felt like socking Ryan in the face. The two guards grabbed her, a little more roughly because Ryan was watching, forced her down into the chair, and strapped her in. Helen made no attempt to stop them.

“Mrs. Pearce, I want you to run through the same testing we did last week, okay?”

“Okay.”

Ryan took up the pen and pad and stood back a few paces. Randall sat down across from Helen and picked up one of the playing cards so that it faced away from her. “All right, just like last time, please tell me if this card is red or black.”

“Red.”

After the fifteenth card, Ryan started scribbling furiously.

“Okay, we’re going to do a few more.”

They continued on with the test, going through the whole deck. Then, Randall shuffled them and took her through the deck again. When they were through, Randall and Ryan walked over to the other end of the lab and talked quietly. Helen watched. They were arguing; Helen could tell that for sure. But, finally, Randall gave in. Eventually, all the doctors gave in to Ryan, and none of them seemed to quit their jobs over what they had to do. It was as if they actually thought they were doing the right thing, as if they were on some kind of mission that justified any and all means. Sadly, a small number of them actually seemed to enjoy their work.

Ryan walked out of the laboratory, notepad tucked under his arm, without even glancing her way. Helen didn’t understand him. He did not seem to take any satisfaction in what he had to do, but he was the one in charge, the one who ordered these tests. He often worked out the testing procedures himself and, rarely, carried them out himself. Yet, he did not relish the work. He just kept at it, like he was looking for something.

Randall went over to one of the counters to retrieve a small machine. He walked the machine over and placed it on the table, trailing an extension cord, like some lazy snake, behind him.

“Mrs. Pearce. Dr. Ryan has ordered me to determine whether electric shocks – as a form of stress – will affect your ability to guess what’s on the cards.”

“Do you mean I’m good at guessing what’s on the cards?”

“Oh yes, you’re very good at it.”

“Dr. Randall, is that why I’m here?”

Randall dropped his gaze to her hand where he was attaching a crude electrode with some bandage tape. “I’m not allowed to discuss why you’re here, Mrs. Pearce. I’m sorry.” He sighed heavily and went and sat in his chair.

She believed him. She also believed that, no matter how sorry he was, he would make her scream today.

Sunday, June 27, 2083. 11:00 a.m.

Helen Pearce was still all over the Sunday reports, on both the Globe and Mail and the New York Times sites, many other major dailies, and all the tabloids you could download. There was a public outcry surrounding the case that was traditionally reserved for women accused of terrible crimes and the fact that Greg Pearce had also recently disappeared was only adding fuel to the flames. The generally accepted theory was the couple had absconded with the funds and were living on some Caribbean island somewhere in the lap of luxury. Marcie didn’t think so.

She shifted her enquiries to the name ‘Reef Callum’. She did a keyword search and thought she’d hit gold when she found him listed as a champion on the USA Karate Federation homepage. But then she saw Reef’s picture. Not the same guy. Her attacker had only borrowed the name.

Her phone beeped quietly in her ear.

“Marcie Noel.”

“Hi Marce. It’s me, Jeff.”

“Hey.”

“Listen, I have a few things I want to show you. Can I come in today? I know you like the day off on Sunday, but…”

“Yeah, no. Come on in. Robbie’s here already. He won’t let me go to the bathroom by myself.”

Jeff was laughing. “See you in ten then.”

“Ho, Jeff. Make that thirty; I have to shower. Oh, and bring food.”

“Sure.”

Thirty minutes later, Jeff walked through the door bearing a great smelling take-away bag and a big smile. What’s gotten into him? They all three sat down in Marcie’s kitchen and chatted about nothing while they ate croissants and scrambled eggs, courtesy of the bakery two doors down. Meal eaten, Marcie turned to Jeff.

“Okay, hotshot. What do you want to show me?”

With some flourish, Jeff pulled an MC out from his jacket pocket.

“What’s so important that you have to carry it around with you? We have email, you know.”

“I know. Come and see this.” He got up and walked down the stairs to his computer with Marcie and Robbie following. He slid the MC into the drive. “The file’s a little big to send in an email. Besides, I wanted to see the look on your face. Do you remember I modified a genealogy program to track relationships in the Pearce case?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, take a look at this.”

The program opened and Jeff clicked through a few menus to display a graph that showed a bunch of dots mapped on the screen with lines joining many of the dots.

“All right. See all those dots?”

“Sure.”

“Every dot is one of the people we’re investigating associated with the Pearce case and the lines between them represent their relationships to each other, if we could find one, different colour lines for different kinds of associations. Green lines are family.” Lines of every colour criss-crossed the page, but there was a predominance of red lines around one locus, with other random convergences elsewhere.

“What’s red?”

“Well, welcome to the discovery of the morning; I should say, very early morning. All these red lines are doctor referral and all these people were referred to this one doctor because they couldn’t have kids. Oh, by the way, I’ve done some long distance on my telephone at home and Kelly has too.”
“Okay, just submit the bills, that’s fine. I thought you said you were having trouble tracking these folks down.”

“Yeah, but, like I said I was gonna, I initiated a search outside North America and ran a search on deleted files, well files marked for deletion anyway. Did you know Kelly can speak French and German?”

“Yes. So, when are you gonna tell me who Centre Dot Guy is?”

Jeff smiled. “Waiting builds character.”

“Ha ha.”

“The Centre Dot Guy is one Dr. Lawrence Ryan.”

“Okay, I want to know his favourite colour and the name of the first girl he ever kissed.”

“Well, for starters, he’s in politics.”

“I hate him already,” Robbie interjected.

“You mean the Ryan, the one who’s running for leadership of the Liberal party?”

“Oh yeah.”

Marcie nodded in response. She was thinking. “Jeff, don’t the Liberals have a big fundraiser for Ryan coming up? I want to go.”

“I thought you’d say that. It’s tonight, in fact. Very fancy, down at the convention centre hotel. I have an idea how to get you in. Let me make a few calls.” Marcie looked at Robbie who nodded ever so slightly.

“All right, and get all over Ryan. I want to know everything about him.”

“Thought you would. Give me a few hours.”

“Sure. I’d like something before we go to the fundraiser, if possible.”

“No problem.”

Robbie piped up. “We have that interview with the Roper’s kids in a half hour. We’d better move.”
They left the office and went upstairs to the PA. Both grown children lived in Barrie, a sprawling bedroom community north of Toronto on what used to be beautiful woodland. The flight would take only ten minutes if they got clearance to jump to the faster, medium height lanes designed for city-to-city flights. They got the clearance. The PA lifted off and then climbed sharply to get up to the city-to-city altitude. Marcie hated the steep climbs. It was the only thing that kept her from travelling more often. Once up, they merged into traffic and levelled off and eight minutes later, they started their descent. And, then, Marcie remembered just how much she hated going down.

They arrived at Angie Roper’s house a few minutes later and did a little fly by of the neat little neighbourhood while Marcie’s stomach settled. Finally, they landed on the street in front of her house. There were two PAs in the driveway.

“Looks like Neville Roper is here too.”

“Good.”

They walked up to the door and rang the bell. A small, blonde woman answered. She looked like her father.

“Good afternoon. Are you Ms. Roper?”

“Yes. Ms. Noel?”

Marcie nodded. “And this is my associate Robbie McLean.”

“Hi. I’ve been expecting you. Come on in.”

She opened the door wider and gestured that they should enter the house. It was a small suburban house, split level, with the kitchen, dining room, and living room on one level. As they entered the door, a taller male version of Angie stood up to greet them. Marcie smiled at him. He nodded but didn’t smile back. Okay, not too happy.

“Please, sit down,” said Angie.

Marcie chose a spot on the sofa and Robbie sat beside her. Angie and Neville took wingback chairs.
“Mr. Roper, Ms. Roper. We’re here to see if we can determine a little of your father’s state of mind in the weeks before his death. I’m hoping you’ll answer a few questions.”

Angie looked up and nodded. Neville said, “Yes, but please make it quick.”

“Fine. Did either of you see your father in the weeks before his death?”

“Well, I did,” said Angie. “Even if Nev didn’t.”

“You didn’t see your father much?”

“He wanted me to be a gynaecologist, like him,” said Neville, as if that explained everything. “I want to be an actor.” In Barrie?

“Okay, well if you didn’t see him, you can’t tell me much about his mental state, can you?”

“Well, actually, I did see him.”

“Oh? And what was the occasion?”

“I needed some money.” I’ll bet.

“So, what would you say about his mental state? Was he a man newly in love or was he just a guy living out the daily grind?”

“He wasn’t singing in the rain, let me say that.”

“And Angie, what would you say?”

“I’d agree with Nev. Dad didn’t seem overly happy. He wasn’t whistling, or making covert phone calls, or ordering roses.”

Marcie noted with interest that neither child was particularly surprised nor offended by her suggestion that Roper might have been having an affair.

“Okay, did you ever meet Helen Pearce?”

“Never,” said Angie.

“Me neither.”

Marcie studied them closely. She saw nothing of the telltale tightness of the lip or flick of the eyes suggesting they were lying. They seemed genuine or at least incapable of artifice. Unless they’re both good actors. Assuming they were telling the truth, Roper was not in a new relationship, and if Roper wasn’t infatuated, then the tabloids’ gold-digger theory evaporated like a sun shower in August.

“Can either of you tell me if your father had any enemies?”

“None that I know of,” said Neville hesitantly.

“No,” said Angie. “Well, not if you exclude Mom.” She smiled. “Sorry. Family joke.”

“Right.” Ri-i-i-ght. “What’s your Mom’s story?”

Angie looked at Neville and he shrugged. She turned back to Marcie. “Mom always wanted more money. She wanted a bigger house and a better PA. She wanted to send us to better schools. She was always fighting with Dad about who controlled the money because he never let her have anything more than an allowance.”

“That must have bugged her.”

“Oh you bet it did,” said Neville. “I think she would’ve done anything to get her hands on the money.”

“Like kill him?”

“Kill him? Of course not.” Angie blurted immediately and looked at her brother.

Neville looked angry. Now they’re offended.   “No way,” said Neville curtly. Of course not. No way.

“Where did you go to school, Neville?” asked Marcie.

“I went to St. Andrew’s College until I graduated. Since then, my father hasn’t given me any money for school. He believes I should pursue a back up career.”

“And you, Angie?”

“Oh, St. Clements, of course.” What the heck is a St. Clements?

“And for university?”

“I went to the University of Toronto for English Criticism.”

“They’re all good schools,” said Marcie. “What was your mother’s problem with them?”

“Well, that’s just it. He always gave her what she wanted, but it had to be his decision.” Okay. Let’s go see the mother.

“All right, then. Thanks for taking the time to see us. We might call again with a few more questions.”

“Sure,” said Angie. “That’s okay. Just let me know.” Neville said nothing; he was still a bit peeved by Marcie’s suggestion that his mother might be a killer.

Marcie and Robbie showed themselves out, closing the door behind them. They got into their PA, and were in the mid-level stream before either of them said anything.

“Well, they say the most likely killer is the person closest to the deceased,” said Robbie.

“Like a business partner or a wife.”

“Bingo.”

“And she dumps the body back at the office a month later to prove he’s dead.”

“For the insurance.”

Marcie looked at her watch. “Wanna go and see if she’s at home?”

“Dying to.”

“Very funny, Robbie.”

Fifteen minutes later, they set down outside the Roper house. Annette Clairmont, Janine Roper’s sister, answered the door. Apparently, Mrs. Roper was overcome with grief over the loss of her husband and had retired to her bedroom. They were shown into a parlour room to wait.

The house and its contents were expensive, but the furnishings were not particularly tasteful – that upper middle-class chic that made boutique storeowners and antique dealers rich. If the Ropers were fighting about money, it wasn’t evident in the house and, even if Roper forced his wife to get approval every time she spent a penny, Marcie was sure Janine Roper was proud of her home and her lifestyle.

After about five minutes wait, Mrs. Roper walked abjectly into the room, dressed in black from head to toe and carrying a Kleenex in her hand.

“Ms. Noel, Mr. McLean? Janine Roper.”

Mrs. Roper looked like she was recently crying. Her eyes were red and puffy and her face was splotched. Marcie and Robbie, in turn, shook her hand.

“Please sit down,” said Mrs. Roper as she took a chair across from them. “I understand you have more questions.”

“Mrs. Roper, we know this is difficult for you.”

“Yes. I’ve already answered so many.”

“We understand. We just want to try and establish Dr. Roper’s frame of mind before he died, Mrs. Roper.”

“Okay.”

Marcie smiled. “Okay. Would you say he was happy, Mrs. Roper?”

“Oh yes. Well, I would say content. He wasn’t an effusive man.”

“Had he become depressed before he died?”

“He obviously didn’t kill himself if that’s what you mean!”

“Oh no, ma’am. We don’t think that at all. We are only trying to determine if there was any emotional change or change in his behaviour in the weeks before his death.”

“Not that I saw.”

“No change in routine?”

“Not really.”

“Was he reliable, Mrs. Roper?”

Roper sighed. “Yes, I would say he was even predictable, Ms. Noel. He’d usually tell me what he was up to. He worked long hours, and sometimes late, but always had an assistant with him at work. Except when he was just doing paperwork. He was in a…delicate field, Ms. Noel.” Marcie could not shake the feeling Mrs. Roper was not being completely honest. Had Roper had affairs before? Was the assistant there at the insistence of Mrs. Roper rather than a wise precaution of Dr. Roper’s?

“All right, you’d say his behaviour didn’t change before he died? He was just the same old guy?”

“Just the same old….” Mrs. Roper started to sniffle.

That’s a little bit thick. Marcie stood. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Roper. We are very sorry for your loss.” Robbie stood and so did Mrs. Roper.

“Ms. Noel,” said Mrs. Roper, “we didn’t always get along, but we were together for over twenty years. I miss him.” Well, that seems more genuine.

“I understand, Mrs. Roper. Thank-you for taking the time to see us today. Good-bye ma’am.” Robbie just nodded as they turned to head for the front door.

Back in the PA, Marcie sighed. “That was quite a show, a little pumped up for my taste, but she doesn’t seem like a murderer to me. I don’t think she loved him in the end, but I don’t think she killed him either.”

“No. I don’t think she has it in her.”

A few minutes later, the little plane climbed into the lower lanes, fully piloted by Control. The sky was still clear and the flow of the traffic fairly heavy for the time of day. Marcie could see the stream stretch out ahead of her, moving toward the heart of the city.

“And I don’t think Roper was infatuated with Helen Pearce, either. Infatuated men rarely behave well. There would’ve been some clues. So, if there was no relationship, Helen Pearce had no access to his money. So, fine. Helen Pearce didn’t kill Roper.”

“Right. Then who did?”

“Exactly.”

Sunday, June 27, 2083. 6:00 p.m.

Later that evening, Marcie pushed her chair back and sighed. Marcie had never come upon a more enigmatic set of records. She felt like she needed a dictionary to understand them, a dictionary of terms for some secret society that’s never named in even one of their own published documents. She rubbed her head and pulled on her neck to loosen up the tension she was feeling. Didn’t work. There were various first names and considerable references to ‘the doctor’, probably Ryan, but who knows? There were many mentions of Toronto and Washington. There were many references to ‘the Institution’ and its ‘operations’, but only one clue to its geographical location: “… to the institution in Canada”. Canada is a big country. And, in more recent documents, there were some references to the ‘Settlement’ with no clues as to where it might be.

But one important point that came through was the neo-neo-neo-Nazis were not on the side of the ‘doctor’ and not responsible for the incarcerations, just logging them and keeping track of people. What were they all mixed up with?

She stood up and went over to her closet. She needed to dress for the Liberal Party fundraiser tonight, the one at which a certain Dr. Ryan was the guest of honour. Now, what to wear? Understated and classic. She got out her small black dress and went over to her dresser where she pulled out the required string of pearls. Then, she retrieved her black purse and shoes to finish the outfit off. She laid these items out on her bed and went and had a shower.

A bit more than fifteen minutes later, she looked in her mirror. With her long hair pulled up and a little more make-up than usual, she looked attractive, modest, and elegant. She looked like a society girl – exactly what she wanted. She bit her lip. What the heck is Robbie gonna wear? Robbie tended toward dark clothes that looked like they’d seen better days. She didn’t know if he owned a suit.

“Let’s go, sugar!” Right on time, Robbie called from the office floor. She walked out of her bedroom with some apprehension and down the stairs to meet him. He was looking up at her admiringly. “You should wear a dress more often.”

“Thanks.” She sighed with relief. He was in a well-cut tux and bow tie looking every bit the corporate escort. “You look all right yourself.” He did too.

“Thanks.” Robbie had a copy of Jeff’s report on Ryan in his hand.

“Did you get a chance to read that?”

“No, I just got here. You have the précis version for me?”

“Sure.” Marcie checked her purse and gathered up her keycards and lipstick as she talked. “Ryan is a real bona fide doctor of both medicine and genetics. Here’s no surprise: his specialty is helping couples conceive. Couples with a lot of money, by the way. He’s an expert on the world arena, a notch or two above Roper in reputation.”

“So all those referrals aren’t that weird.”

Marcie perched on her desk. “Nope, except his patients are disappearing. He has no immediate family alive, is well connected to high society and, get this: runs various research facilities in Canada.   Could one of them be the famous ‘Institute’? But that would put the neo-neo-neo-Nazis and Ryan on opposite sides. So, I’m not sure what to do with this information. Other than that, not much to report. He makes a squizillion dollars a year, spends most of it on investments and recently made an obscenely high contribution to the Liberal Party. Oh, and his campaign is well funded. He’s made another squizillion dollars for it already. Basically, he’s rolling in it.”

“No wife, no partner, no mistress? No secret boyfriend?”

“Doesn’t look like it but Jeff says the curtain around Ryan is pretty thick. The Liberal Party is taking care of its own. He’s going to stay and do some more digging tonight.”

“Well, a party leader-in-waiting. A rich, hard working, dedicated man without even a pimple. Not your average bad guy.”

“That’s not what Karl Marx would say. Let’s go.”

Marcie looked around the office and wondered who would try to break in or try to hack the computer system while they were out. Well, at least Jeff would be here for a few hours. She called out her good byes to Jeff and received a grunt in return. She smiled and followed Robbie out the door.

The event was so close they took a ground taxi. Marcie didn’t like taking ground cars as a rule and this one stank, but they arrived at the convention centre in minutes and, since most of the well-to-do shared Marcie’s opinion of ground cars, the ground lobby was empty. In fact, there was a sign informing guests that the ground lobby was going to close and be converted into an exhibition hall. All ground deliveries would be received in the back of the hotel at the underground ground car parking entrance. The main lobby had moved to the top floor after two levels of extra PA parking were added to the roof.

The affair was being held in the Leaf Ballroom. Marcie and Robbie took the escalator up to a packed mezzanine. All of Toronto’s, and much of Canada’s, elite would be coming. The mezzanine sparkled with couples and small groups chatting and sipping cocktails. Recent trends in fashion had drifted toward satisfying the prude in all of us – an extreme modesty was dominating the styles. Despite the warm weather, many women were in fussy dresses with high necklines, long sleeves, and skirts to the floor; the men were in severe black tuxedos. Everyone looked well dressed, but more than a few looked uncomfortable. Marcie did not follow fads much and was relieved to see that enough women were dressed like her that she didn’t look out of place. I’ll have to start visiting the Vogue website. When did all this all happen?

“How did Jeff get the invites to this thing?” asked Robbie as they manoeuvred their way through the crowd.

“He scammed some tickets from Ida Greer, one of our best clients. She’s a bit of a recluse. Very careful. Likes to know a person’s favourite colour and his maiden aunt’s middle name before she hires him.”

“I’ve heard of her.”

“She’s in the news occasionally these days, but she was political in her youth.   Never ran for office though. Just threw her money around. Anyway, Jeff took a chance and called the woman’s assistant, a guy he went to school with. Apparently, Greer had invites but didn’t want to come. She was happy to have a of couple suckers willing to go in her place. Ms. Greer called Jeff back herself. The tickets were at the office before three in the afternoon.”

“Do you want to have a drink out here, or go straight inside?”

“Inside.”

“Okay, well, hand over the tickets, then.”

“Sure.”

Marcie pulled the invites out of her purse and passed them to Robbie. He, in turn, offered them to a smartly dressed young hostess on the door of the Leaf, who smiled warmly as they approached.

“Welcome to the 2083 Fundraiser in support of Dr. Lawrence Ryan’s Liberal Leadership Campaign. Your assistance is greatly appreciated, and we hope you enjoy the evening. Please follow me.” She stepped forward to lead them to their table and an equally pretty young woman took her place at the door. She led them smoothly through the tables and spoke to them over her shoulder. “Appetizers are already waiting for you, and dinner will be served in approximately twenty minutes. Drinks are available from the bar in the mezzanine or the long bar on the east wall.” She gestured to her left. Marcie looked at the thirty-foot long bar, every inch of which was taken by a well-dressed guest. These Liberals sure like their drink. “If you prefer, there is wine on each table. Here we are.” She pulled a chair for Marcie and gestured to Robbie’s seat. “If you have any questions, please feel free to ask any one of the hostesses. Enjoy.” She left them to resume her station at the door.

The whole of The Leaf Ballroom had been devoted to the affair, with over fifty tables of six guests apiece – not one square foot allotted to dance floor. Each table was dressed with a white cloth and set with fine china, crystal, red candles, and silver dinnerware with an overflowing dish of fruit and flowers as a centrepiece. The effect was colourful and opulent. Most of the tables near the front were empty and many of the tables near the back were full. At twenty grand a head, Marcie did the math, then she stifled the urge to whistle at what the Liberal Party would take in tonight – especially if she were to factor in the extra donations that almost certainly would be made by the faithful. Well. That’s the point, though, isn’t it. Marcie personally thought politicians were the last people who needed all that money.

Ida Greer was no slouch in the city. Their table wasn’t at the front, but it was certainly not at the back either. Table number fifteen. Of the better tables, they were the first guests to arrive; the rest of their table was empty. There was no one at the head table, which Marcie assumed would fill with some pomp and circumstance.

“We’ll have to arrive fashionably late next time.” Robbie just grunted.

A waiter came over immediately, poured some water for them, and offered to get them drinks from the bar. They declined and the waiter left. Marcie poured herself a glass of wine and took a long look at the caviar and other expensive nibbles displayed on silver trays, but Robbie just sipped his water. He had a strange look on his face.

“What’s up Robbie? You look glum.”

“I know. I know. We’re supposed to be pretending to have a good time.”

“No, I mean, yes, but I’m not saying you’re slacking. Look around you. Everyone’s competing for the ‘I’m the most bored’ title. No, I’m wondering what you’re thinking.”

“You’ll call me naïve.”

“Perhaps, but who cares what I say?”

Robbie smiled. “Okay, I was just thinking we’re trying to solve a murder and find a missing woman while, more and more, it looks likely that the bad guys will be here tonight, at a gathering of the pillars of society. VIPs. Living it up.” He picked up the bottle from which Marcie had just poured her glass of wine and looked at the label. “Drinking expensive red wine and eating caviar.”

“Seems hypocritical, yes?”

“Absolutely.”

“You know what? I don’t think you’re naïve. I think you’re right, and I think we’ve played this song so many times it’s viciously stupid of us to measure a man by his bank account. But we still do.”

Another couple sat down. They were both slim, in their fifties, and dressed impeccably, the man in a tuxedo and the woman in a high necked, gold coloured dress. Marcie smiled a vacuous smile, and laid her head on Robbie’s shoulder. Robbie nodded at them.

“Ida not coming tonight, then?” the man asked. He didn’t seem surprised. Marcie looked down at the table and saw name cards at each place.

“No, she gave us her seats. Robbie McLean.” Robbie half stood and shook hands with the man.

“John Teller.”

“How do you do? And this is my friend Marcie Noel.”

“How do you do?” said Marcie, her voice pitched slightly higher than usual. Marcie didn’t lay it on too thick. She might meet some potential clients; she couldn’t come across as a complete ditz.

“The Marcie Noel?” The woman’s voice was almost sarcastic. “Nice to meet you. I’m Chloe Teller.”

Marcie smiled and said, “Hi and, yes, those are my ads.”

“She’s such a curmudgeon, is our Ida,” said John Teller as he sat down. He was talking to Robbie and ignoring the women. “You’d think she’d at least be here to support such a good cause in person. We haven’t had a dynamic leadership hopeful like Ryan in twenty years.” Marcie did not point out that Ms. Greer had paid a lot of money for the tickets.

“Well, dear,” responded Chloe. “She doesn’t like to dirty her hands, does she?”

“No, she thinks we’re all underhanded crooks, dear. But how does she think her father got his money?” Chloe and John laughed at his joke, so Marcie joined in too.

“Well, she should know dear,” Chloe said in an almost patronizing tone. “She knows everyone and everything, does our Ida. And she seems to know about everyone’s business. I expect you assist her with that, Ms. Noel.” The ice in her voice only came through at the end of the sentence, but Marcie was chilled through and through. Thank God I decided to be ditzy tonight.

“Oh no. I don’t get much involved in Ms. Greer’s affairs. I did a last minute background check on her new gardener last week. No lie. I think she appreciated the turn around on the inquiry and she let us have these tickets because she wasn’t feeling well.”

They bought it, but Marcie decided to watch her step. The room was filling up with sharks and barracudas. Ida Greer seems like my kind of people.

Two other couples, just as endearing as the Tellers, joined them over the next ten minutes. The rest of the evening was full of idle chitchat about tennis and cricket and the people in their social circle. Marcie quickly learned to hate the word ‘dear’.

The head table came in together about half an hour later. Dinner was served almost immediately upon their arrival.

Now, what kind of man are you, Dr. Lawrence Ryan? Marcie watched carefully as he came in. You can often tell a lot about a person just by looking at how he moved. Here was a man who knew how to walk. He was steady, almost graceful and, in fact, he was quite good looking. He was tall and lithe, with auburn hair cut very short, and lightly tanned skin. He was dressed impeccably in a black tuxedo that fit him perfectly.   Marcie could see no sign of affectation. Though he seemed a little remote from the rest, a little cold, she could clearly see he had his own personal charm. He brought neither a date nor an escort. He sat in the centre of the head table and looked like he was making conversation easily. He seemed to be enjoying himself, but not completely relaxed. That was to be expected. The guy was working.

Dinner was mediocre: tomato bisque soup, roast beef and vegetables, light sorbet for dessert, an uninspired menu that was, unfortunately, equally uninspired in the preparation. You’d think for this much money… The hors d’oeuvres had been better. Marcie ate very little even though she was hungry and Robbie, she noted, didn’t finish his either.

They did their best to keep up with the table discussion, but Marcie soon found that the conversation required inner knowledge of upper social circles. Though keen for any mention of Ryan himself, Marcie really only cared about the backgrounds of gardeners and nannies, so she quickly bored. Following dinner, the news crews set up and Marcie was impressed as she watched every member of her table adopt a much more serious and engaged attitude for the cameras. Image is more important than substance, especially on television, so Marcie took the cue and did the same. Finally, the speeches began. Marcie couldn’t believe she was relieved. Usually she hated speeches.

There was a short introduction from Dr. Stanley Proboski, the event organizer, in which Dr. Ryan was described as a true humanitarian, committed to the cause of enriching society. Apparently this had something to do with lowering taxes for the rich. Hmmmm. Ryan got up and shook Probowski’s hand and then stood up at the podium.

His opening remarks were pedestrian at best, but eventually he got worked up: “…and we’re fighting a battle, ladies and gentlemen. A battle understood by a precious few. A battle that will determine the future of our society and, consequently, the future for our children’s children.”

Nice rhetoric. But what does it mean? Apparently nothing much, but he was a good speaker, making a connection with the crowd. There were times when Marcie was sure he was staring right at her. Even their tablemates got caught up in his enthusiasm. Ryan went on to suggest that the best way to spur society to excellence was to entrench the position of those already privileged by reducing their taxes, so the rich could fund great projects and cultural achievements. It’s an argument. Marcie was surprised to hear the suggestion from a Liberal Party member, but she knew the people who funded politicians were the rich and the rich really only wanted to get richer. If a politician did not cater to that wish, he attracted little of the support that truly mattered.

Marcie grew disinterested in his speech and was soon checking the room to see who had attended. She saw a lot of faces she would expect to see: princes of industry, wannabes, and wannabeseens. Nothing but what you’d expect. And then she noticed Daniel Harcourt sitting on a chair at the back wall. Harcourt wasn’t at a table and he was barely appropriately dressed – not like him at all. She hadn’t noticed him earlier, so it was likely he slipped in after the media set up. He was probably there just to take in the speech and then leave before the party began. What are you doing here, sweetheart? Daniel Harcourt was the number one kingmaker in the country. He ran the country’s top advertising and public relations agency, and he’d been central to the election of four out of five of Canada’s last prime ministers. Regardless of your political stance, Daniel Harcourt would get you elected. Conservative and Liberal alike sought out his assistance, and Harcourt seemed to have no political alliance. He always went to the top bidder. The NDP didn’t like him, but then again, they never got elected anyway because they never had enough money. When was the next federal election? Two years from now, certainly.

So Ryan’s on his way to the P.M.’s office. This revelation changed things. But it answered no questions. It merely upped the ante.

Sunday, June 27, 2083. 11:30 p.m.

Marcie and Robbie left as soon as it was reasonable to do so. Marcie had never been so bored while trying to act so animated in her whole life. She suddenly understood why these people needed a bar in the lobby, a long bar, and wine on the table.

They left the ballroom and, again, were approached by a lovely young hostess – could have been the same one who had led them in, could have been different – who offered to escort them to the roof lobby elevator.

“We took a ground cab, thanks,” said Marcie.

“A ground cab?” The woman looked honestly dumbfounded.

Marcie and Robbie tried not to laugh as they stepped onto the escalator going down to the deserted ground lobby. They walked through, heels clicking on marble, the sounds echoing in the large, empty room. They nodded at the single professionally dressed woman manning a lobby desk that spanned the whole of the lower floor wall. She looked bored but managed a smile for them. No wonder this area was closing.

They pushed through the circular doors out to a pleasant evening. The moon was full and stars twinkled. Thick streams of air traffic moved in rivers of light and dark in the night sky, but there were few vehicles on the ground. Robbie signalled to the one cab sitting at the cabstand. Twenty years ago, twenty cabs would have been lined up waiting.

“Want to go out for real, sugar? We could catch a late movie or have a real cocktail.” There was a twinkle in Robbie’s eye. He was right. They’d been working hard; maybe it was time for some fun.

“We shouldn’t waste these clothes. How about some dancing, Robbie?”

He smiled. “What kind would the lady prefer?”

“Well, when we find her we’ll ask. I would like to go ballroom dancing. Haven’t done it since I took lessons down on the Danforth.”

“Perhaps we took the same lessons. I know just the place to go – in Montreal. Let’s get the PA.”

Marcie laughed at his cavalier approach to life, but he was right. They were about forty minutes from Montreal, and Montreal stayed open late. It would be fun. They climbed in the cab and Robbie gave the Loft address. Marcie relaxed a little. This car was clean and she liked that. She settled back and thought about Dr. Lawrence Ryan.

There was nothing strange about the man except he was seeking public office. He was certainly well connected and he was certainly going places. He had the looks and the personal charisma to get him there. Marcie could see no flaws. He didn’t even have one drink at the dinner. So, why is he connected to over twenty disappearances that we know of and not the subject of an inquiry? It smacked of some kind of conspiracy.

They were almost back to the Loft when the taxi suddenly came to a screeching halt.

Marcie was pitched forward into the driver’s seat and took a good hit to her head and left shoulder. Robbie was wearing his seatbelt and only got jostled. Marcie shook her head to try and clear it when she heard a loud ‘thunk’ from above. A PA had landed on the roof of the car. What the…? Marcie looked at window beside her and noticed that the glass was bulging out. The roof wasn’t going to hold.

“Get out!” she screamed as she grappled with the door handle beside her. The handle was releasing the latch but, though she pushed hard, the door wouldn’t move. It couldn’t. It was taking too much weight from above. She suddenly became aware of Robbie right beside her and turned to see him kicking his door out with both legs. He kicked and kicked and kicked again. The thing finally gave way, but then the right rear section of the cab started to collapse from the load from above. Robbie jumped out and Marcie scrambled out behind him. Robbie reached back in the car to help the cabbie out of the vehicle when both he and Marcie were jumped from behind.

Marcie threw her attacker before she really understood she was being attacked. Thanks, Mum! She grabbed his arms and dropped to a crouch as she used the force of his momentum to throw him over her head. He hit the trunk of the car hard and lay there.   She took a defensive position and waited for him to get up again, but he did not. She whirled to see that Robbie had just as quickly dispatched his assailant, but he was standing with his hands up. Marcie put hers up too.

A man was standing nonchalantly, about twenty feet away, and pointing a very big gun at them both. He was of medium height, with a stocky build, salt and pepper slicked-back hair, and a hard face.

Marcie wanted to see if she could get an edge: “David Welsh, I presume.”

He only smirked: “This can be easy or it can be hard.”

I was never that easy to get along with. She could see a PA parked on the road just five feet away. Marcie had the choice of going with this jerk or jumping for freedom. Since he hadn’t identified himself, Marcie assumed he wasn’t from any official body, so it was likely Will couldn’t help her get out of this one. Well, he said I shouldn’t get in any more trouble in the next few weeks. He’s on vacation, right? She leaped. She sensed, rather than saw, Robbie move at the same time, but she didn’t see what he did. Someone started firing a gun. She came down on the pavement and rolled, letting the roll to take most of her kinetic energy. She heard more gunfire, but ignored it. There was nothing she could do now but try to escape. She emerged from the roll in the cover of the parked PA and allowed the roll to bring her up to her feet. She ran. Fifteen feet beyond the PA, Marcie turned sharply to left and into a small alleyway. It was only then that she realized Robbie was right behind her. Phew.

Marcie was on home ground. Just a hundred feet down the alley was the back of Percy’s, a sub place. The rear door was always open because staff and customers were constantly coming in and out to have a smoke. Marcie ran up to the door. Damn shoes! A young man was sitting on a garbage can and puffing on a Marlboro.

“Hey, Joey.”

“Hey, Marce.”

“You never saw us, hey?”

Marcie pulled on the back door and disappeared inside with Robbie on her heels. They heard a ground car roaring down the alley, but they didn’t wait around to see what happened. They ran up the narrow hallway past the washrooms and the kitchen and then dodged through the tables in the front.

Percy’s opened onto Portland, only a few blocks from the Loft and relative safety. Marcie and Robbie ran up Portland one block, and then Robbie took the lead. He crossed the road and Marcie followed. But when they got to Niagara, they turned left when they should have continued straight up to Queen Street. Where is he going? Then she remembered, Robbie lived at Niagara and Bathurst, in a condo just a few doors down. They heard the sound of tires squealing not too far behind them. Robbie grabbed Marcie’s hand and poured on the speed. Marcie did her best to keep up, but already her feet hurt from the bloody shoes and her head was starting to pound from the knock she took in the cab. They managed to get to the building without incident, pausing only long enough to enter the security code. They ran inside and got straight on an elevator that, luckily, was sitting open in the lobby. Robbie didn’t bother stopping at his floor.

“Let’s go somewhere no one knows about, sugar. There’s too much going on right now. Let’s get some rest and figure out what to do in the morning.”

“Sensible. I think I need an aspirin.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

The elevator let them out on his roof in a nice big lobby. Marcie was jealous. He looked out and seemed relieved to find his PA there and in good shape, but then a cloud passed over his face. Marcie knew what he was worried about. PAs were great, but they were computer controlled and that left them open to tampering. And now that they had become a target, a PA hijack was something else to worry about.

“Why don’t you wait here in the lobby, sugar?”

“Na. I’ll go with you. Whatever trouble happens, let’s get in it together. Maximizes our chance of getting out.” He smiled and led the way out of the lobby.

They climbed in the PA and started it up. It fired normally, and no program seemed to take over the operation of the unit. Robbie entered his destination and sat back.

“This is going to take a little while, sugar.”

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me?”

“Sure.”

“New York.”

“The city?”

“Where else?”

It was at that moment that Marcie realized she didn’t really know enough about Robbie despite their years of friendship. The vehicle started a steep ascent into international lanes. Heesh, my stomach. Apparently, Marcie was going to travel more whether she liked it or not. Thank God, we’re not hopping continents. The continental lanes were the highest and fastest, and only open to PA operators of a certain class.

They finally made the climb and Marcie sat back. She needed to call the office, but the cell phone was a risk. I’ll make it quick. She tapped on her neck to activate her phone and called the Loft. Jeff answered.

“Noel and Company.”

“What the heck are you still doing there?”

“Um. I like it here.”

“Okay then, do me a favour and stay there. I’m going to be away for a few days.”

“Absolutely, no problem.”

“Make the place look lived in. Watch yourself, though. We were jumped again.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’ll call in the morning.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

About an hour later, they were over New York City in a standard figure-eight waiting pattern. Most folks called this the ‘infinity loop’, because you always seemed to wait so long. After ten minutes in the loop, they suddenly dropped like a stone.

Marcie jumped and looked at Robbie, stifling a scream.

“Never come into New York, sugar? No? Well, entry is vertical to about seven hundred feet. Tokyo is like that too.” He went back to his magazine. Oh my stomach.

A few harrowing seconds later, the PA pulled itself out of free fall and, a few minutes after that, came to rest at the top of the Trump International Hotel, a venerable old place, practically an institution in the city. Once a commanding structure in the skyline, it was now dwarfed by some of the super towers that had been built in the last one hundred years. Trust Robbie to like the tried and true. The PA parking lot, built in the last twenty years, had been designed to blend in the with the old style glass walled towers so fashionable at the end of the twentieth century.

They landed on the pad and got out of the vehicle. They were met by a valet who took the keys, so he could park the vehicle, and who directed them to the roof entrance.

A few minutes later, Robbie was ordering a two-bedroom Park View Suite and asking that robes and extra towels be sent down to the room immediately. He also asked to see the Night Manager. The hotel staff called him Mr. Grant and they buzzed around him like bees. Marcie just stared. She’d never done a background check on him because he was one of the first people she’d met when she left home.   He was like family. She’d never looked past the calf length leather jackets and the street lingo. I should’ve done a goddamn background check. A waiter with a tray of fresh coffee showed her to a comfortable chair. Robbie sat across the lobby with the manager for a long time. The man took notes.

Two cups of coffee later, they came over to Marcie who stood to greet them.

“Marcie Noel, meet Mark Torrence, the night manager here.”

“How do you do?” Marcie held out her hand.

“Ms. Noel.” He smiled as he shook her hand.

They started walking toward the elevators.

“Marcie, do you want anything sent down? I’ve ordered some food and pyjamas and robes for both of us. How’s you’re head? Need some aspirin?”

Marcie thought about it. The headache had cleared. “No, I’m fine, but I will want a change of clothes for the morning.”

Torrence responded: “We can send them with breakfast, ma’am, if the timing works for you. It would be a little challenging to get anything for you at this hour.”

Marcie laughed. They all stepped onto an elevator and Torrence punched the button for the eighteenth floor. He escorted them all the way to their rooms chatting with Robbie as if they’d known each other for years. He let them in and handed two keycards to ‘Mr. Grant’.

“Hope you enjoy your stay, sir.”

“Thank you, Mark,” said Robbie, shaking his hand.

The suite was tastefully furnished and comfortable at the same time. There was a kitchenette, a bar, a small office area and a sitting area, complete with a fake fireplace. The view was stunning. She could see Central Park, dark in the middle of the night, with the city twinkling around it.

“Which room do you want, sugar?” Robbie was standing at the door of one of the bedrooms.

“The one with the big bathtub.”

“Both the same. I’ll take this one. I like blue.”

“Fine.”

There was a knock on the door. Robbie went to answer it, so Marcie went into her room to look around: queen-sized bed, holovision, and a bank of electronics including a personal computer. The bathroom was stunning, done in smoky grey and tan with a bath practically the size of the bed. She turned to leave just as a maid delivered toiletries and a bathrobe.

She walked out into the main room and stood by the window looking out at one of the world’s liveliest cities. “No one would think to look for me here.”

“That’s what I figured, sugar.” The maid finished her business and left.

“So what?” She turned to face Robbie, fearing the worst. “Are you some kind of crime lord? Drug dealer? What?”

“My family is in shipping.”

“Shipping. I’ll bet.” Shipping. Grant. Grant Shipping. Grant Shipping International. The largest transportation consortium in the world. Robbie is rich. Really rich. He probably owns this hotel. “You own this hotel, don’t you?”

Robbie smiled. “Yeah. Want some peanuts? I’m starved.”

“Sure.”

Robbie threw her a small foil pack. She caught it, ripped it open, and then sat on the couch so she could think while she stared at the city and nibbled.

“We should stay here for a few days, Robbie.”

“I agree. It was getting pretty hairy at home.”

There was another knock on the door. Robbie practically ran to the door and sighed in satisfaction when the server wheeled in meals for them. The server placed the food on the table, laying out the cutlery and glasses. He opened the red wine and set out the bottle for them. Robbie tipped him and then sat down before the server even had the chance to close the door.

“Come on, sugar. You don’t want to miss this.”

Marcie smiled, got up, and walked over to join him. She was taken aback. The meal in front of them was almost exactly the same one served at the event in Toronto.

“Didn’t you have enough of this already?”

“Oh, sugar. That wasn’t roast beef they were serving. Where was the Yorkshire pudding? Where was that succulent flavour?”

Marcie was laughing. She sat down, cut a little piece for herself, and put it in her mouth. Goodness. This was a lot better.

“I hate fundraisers,” said Robbie. “They serve such lousy food.”

They ate every speck off their plates and polished off the whole bottle of red wine. Near the end of the evening, Robbie got up and did a passable impersonation of Ryan that made Marcie laugh until she cried.

Marcie fell into bed around two in the morning, totally exhausted. She slept deeply and with good dreams. The sleep of the carefree, the innocent, or the young-at-heart.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Thanks for reading Chapter 3. If you liked this chapter and want to encourage Jacqui to post more chapters and write more books, please click on one of the sponsored links on this page. Thanks!

Jacqui Burke is a Freelance Director/Writer/Theatrical Teacher. At time of posting, projects include: Shakespeare is Boffo! March Break Camp for 9-15 year olds; Wrong For Each Other for Encore Entertainment, opening late March; and The Mayan Prediction, this years Toronto Homeschoolers Kidsplay. Up to date information on Jacqui's projects can be found at her website.

Thanks, as always, to John for his ongoing support and Brenda for her ongoing inspiration.

The Pretender - Chapter 2

2012-02-29T04:09:00.000-08:00

Monday, June 21, 2083. 2:30 p.m.

Marcie’s day had exploded. The advertising released over the last few days was working all too well. Marcie wanted to get the assistant hired, but her phone wouldn’t stop ringing. She finally routed her phone through the office system, but even then there were many inquiries she had to take herself. Six new jobs were logged in one hour, when they normally got six jobs in a day. They were going so mad even Robbie was answering the telephone. Marcie tapped her neck to clear the call she’d just finished and looked at Dana Herrod, the applicant sitting across from her. Dana had sat patiently through the last five telephone calls. She was tall, with a sunny disposition, curly auburn hair and brown eyes. She had six years experience as an administrative assistant for one of the major law firms, but she’d left because she found the work unfulfilling. Marcie liked her immediately. She was one of three they’d short-listed and since all the short-listed applicants’ references were already checked and background checks were done, Marcie was free to make a snap decision.

“When can you start, Dana?”

Dana looked around at the mayhem. “Immediately.”

“You’re hired.”

Dana looked excited. “Great.”

“The first thing I want you to do is call Kelly, another applicant.” Marcie handed Dana a file folder. “Tell her she’s hired too and she can start right away, today if possible, but only on a temp basis for now.” Marcie would need another hand while she dealt with the Pearce case. Marcie guided Dana over to a relatively empty desk. “This is where you’ll sit. After you call Kelly, please order a new desk, and find another telephone for her. Got it? Good. Tracy!”

Tracy was just coming out of the bathroom. She had a real knack for being in the right place at the right time. “Yes, Marce?”

“This is Dana. She’s starting with us right now. She has two small tasks and then she’ll be helping you today. Make sure we have all the paper filled out, set up an employee file, and copy her i.d. You’re training her, okay?”

“Okay.” Tracy smiled at Dana.

“Oh, and we need all these desks shifted down to accommodate one more, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Hey! What about me?”

Marcie turned to Dana. “That’s Jeff.” She looked up to see Jeff going up the stairs to the Stacks with a pile of CDs and a coffee. “You’re S.O.L. buddy.” He rolled his eyes in response as he disappeared behind the shelves. The telephone was ringing again. “Will someone get that?”

Robbie turned and picked up the telephone. “Noel and Company. Oh yeah, hi. Hold on a sec.” He put the call on hold. “Hey, sugar. It’s that Pearce guy.”

Marcie almost put him off for another hour. She really needed more time to organize things, but she reconsidered, nodded, and picked up the telephone. Pearce was going to pay her a lot of money and she owed him her attention. She picked up the phone. “Mr. Pearce, what can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a list of the names you asked for, the ones from the hospital files we couldn’t get into. Should I email it to you?”

“Sure. You have the address?”

“Yeah, from your business card. Look, I really appreciate your help.”

“No problem. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks. I’ll send the list right away.”

“Great. Anything else?”

“Uh…not yet. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye.” She hung up the telephone. “Jeff!”

“Yeah.” He popped out from behind the shelves and looked down at her.

“An email should be coming through from Greg Pearce on my account in the next few minutes. I want you to drop everything and investigate all of the people on the list. Who are they? Have they gone missing? If not, where are they? Jobs, immediate family, blah, blah. We’re looking for connections, Jeff. Something other than a hospital database is tying these people together, yeah? There may be some association with infertility – that was Roper’s specialty. Log the time on the Pearce docket and, oh, we’ve got an assistant coming in for you too. Her name is Kelly. I think you’ll like her.”

Jeff, who’d been scowling, broke out into a smile and gave her a wink. He had a great smile when he bothered. Marcie hoped that getting a little help in would make everyone more relaxed. It had gotten a bit tense here lately.

“By the way Marcie, I have a few David Welshes in the Toronto area. Most of them are innocuous enough, but one is a tabloid reporter. He might be your guy.”

“Oh yeah.” Tracy piped up. “A guy named Dave Welsh called looking for you this morning. He could’ve been a reporter.” She didn’t sound certain. “He was trying to get information on the Pearce case.”

“The Pearce case? Who out there knows I’m on the Pearce case.”

Tracy looked at her quizzically. “Good point.”

Marcie thought back. Hadn’t Welsh called first? He’d made contact, however clumsily, even before she’d heard from Pearce. That meant Welsh was working for someone who knew Greg Pearce better than he did himself. She walked the stairs up to the loft slowly, deep in thought. She poured another cup of coffee, draining the pot.

“Jeff, when you can get back to it, keep digging for info on Welsh. I don’t think this guy is a reporter. David Welsh knows more about the Pearce case than Pearce does.”

“Gotcha.”

Fine. Time for a bit of fun. She turned back and addressed the lower floor. “Okay, everyone. I am now incommunicado. Take messages. I’ll be available by the end of the day. Interrupt me only for emergencies. Oh, and Dana, make coffee, please.”

She ignored the groans and retired into her bedroom. Half of the bedroom housed a queen-sized bed and nightstand; the other half was taken up by a massive computer system, with five vidscreens, ten different boxes and a bevy of peripheral equipment. She sat down, opened a browser and initiated a search on the name Helen Pearce. She often got her best ideas about a case if she just let her mind wander while she did the preliminary research. She found the longer she took at this stage, the more easily the puzzle fit together later. She got so few criminal cases; it was fun to be working on one again. She’d become too much the saleslady, too much the order-taker. She wanted to flex her muscles. She may as well do it on the most challenging case to hit the office in a year.

The search came back with about seven hundred thousand responses. The Internet had millions upon millions of web sites and pages, approximately two or three sites for every man, woman, and child in North America alone. Most people had, or were mentioned in, a family site, a work site, and sites devoted to their favourite pastimes. Surprisingly, many websites were defunct but still sitting out there undeleted. The Internet was an unwieldy monster, but it would sing like a pretty little bird with the right person asking the questions. She started adding more variables to her search.

Every search popped with the right information. A search like this one might take about ten keywords to pop, compared with probably fifteen for someone named John Smith. A ‘pop’ for Marcie was a result of only a few hundred sites with the first, say, thirty sites being truly relevant. Helen’s would pop with much more because she was all over the news sites right now. Marcie was certain she’d have to go through thousands of entries over the next few days, but she didn’t mind. She had her coffee. Business was being taken care of. And she was billing for this. Bliss.

At keyword three, the responses dropped dramatically from the hundreds of thousands to the tens of thousands. That amount didn’t go down again until keyword ten at which point it settled at about three thousand. Marcie started reading.

According to the papers, Roper was killed by a single shot to the head – classic ‘hit’ style – and certainly somewhere other than his office where his body was found, a full four weeks after his death and, apparently, his burial. The corpse was found on an examination table partially decomposed and partially eaten by insects, soil all over it. Despite a very large amount of money being offered as reward by the family of the deceased, no one had come forward with information about his killer.

Why would anyone murder someone, bury the body for about a month, dig it up, and then move it back to his office? Only someone who wanted to prove Roper was actually dead. But if Helen had gotten away with that much money, why would she come back and reveal the body – an act that only confirmed Roper wasn’t off gallivanting in the Caribbean with a cute little bimbette and all his wife’s money? An act that made her the prime suspect? Doesn’t make sense. It made more sense if Roper’s widow moved the body. She, at least, would collect on the insurance if she could prove he was dead.

But the papers were in love with the idea of Helen Pearce as gold-digger. There was sex, murder, love, theft, and a gruesome aspect missing from most people’s lives. Thank goodness.

Marcie opened a new browser and started a search on Roper. She ignored all media sites for now and whittled the number of responses down to only a few hundred websites. In the midst of these, she found his practice site, still up and running. It was helpful. Roper was a well-to-do gynaecologist in downtown Toronto who specialized in helping infertile parents conceive. He’d had a thriving practice and was making a lot of money. The web site was warm and fuzzy, painted in pastel pinks and baby-blues, and accepted Visa, Mastercard, and WorldExpress. A first time consult with the guy cost over five grand. Seemed almost fair enough, due to the amount of research he, apparently, had to do to make a recommendation on treatments, but Marcie got the feeling he liked raking in the dough.

She ripped off the site including images and stored the whole thing on her computer for later reference, and then she searched through to see what he had to say about hospitals he partnered with: Toronto General and Toronto Women’s. Both these hospitals were world-famous for their fertility facilities. But so was North York Gen, and he didn’t go up there – ever. In his practice, he was a real downtown Torontoner; a trip to the inner suburbs probably gave this guy a headache. Why oh why, then, Hamilton?

Marcie popped another browser and found an article on the history of fertility research. Approaching the middle of this century, North America was struck by a major fertility crisis. Some said it was smog, some said it was God but, for whatever reason, children became very much in demand. Many couples adopted from the third world and mmigration was stepped up to ensure the country had a reliable workforce. But the wealthy and the desperate started to vote with their dollars and billions were spent on fertility research over a decade. Toronto, Chicago, and Portland, Oregon, were the three cities that built whole industries around a problem that continued to this day.

But not Hamilton, Ontario. Hamilton was part university town and part steel town. They had excellent facilities, to be sure, but not better than Toronto. Why would Roper send Helen to Hamilton for tests? Torontonians were Toronto-centric: Most people who live in Toronto don’t realize there’s anywhere in Canada outside Toronto, even if they were born and bred in British Columbia. Was this some kind of referral? Did he determine that Helen had some other kind of problem not related to her fertility issues? We need to interview his old staff. We need to pull her records. She popped her organizer, opened a new file and made a note to ask Greg Pearce if there were written instructions to his wife about the testing. Also, she made a note to ask his staff whether Roper had ever had any dealings with the hospital in Hamilton.

She went back to her initial search on Helen Pearce. She waded through the rest of the newspaper articles as quickly as she could, knowing that she’d get back to them later. Then, she looked at her watch. It was already almost five p.m. This was going to be a long day. She walked out of the bedroom and back to the open area of the Loft. The tension in the room seemed to have subsided. She even heard one of the women laughing downstairs.

“Hello folks! Anybody still here?”

She received catcalls and cursing in return. Goodness. I have to look at my management approach. Now there are five of them!

“Blah, blah, blah. Floor meeting!” She stopped to pour yet another cup of coffee and followed Jeff down the circular stairs to the lower level. Tracy had done a great job of guerrilla redecorating, and the fifth desk, that Dana had made appear sometime in the afternoon, did not make the room seem crowded in any way. In fact, they could probably get yet another desk in if they needed, maybe two. All and sundry were there waiting when she arrived. Marcie perched on her desk and made a point of nodding and smiling at Kelly who still looked a little shell-shocked after being pulled in at the last minute.

“Okay, welcome all new folks to our little enterprise. I hope we’re already working you too hard. Just so you know, even though you’re assisting, you’ll be offered the same kind of bonus for volume that Jeff and Tracy get, so feel free to quiz them ruthlessly about the money they make. Good luck and, please, try to give us a few days warning before you quit in disgust.

“Tracy, how many jobs in today?”

“Eighteen in total. If this keeps up we’ll need to hire more staff this week. We are swamped.”

“Stay on top of it and do whatever you have to do. All I have to do is keep placing the advertising, right?”

“Right.”

“Jeff, I’ll have an extra few research jobs for you by tomorrow, just to make your life hell, and Robbie, I need you to check out a few places for me. I’ve sent you an email with the info you need. First Roper’s office, that’s the doctor. And second, the Pearce residence. I might want to come with you on that one, so give it a day or two. Oh, and you need to find and interview Roper’s old staff.”

She stopped and looked at them. They were all young, enthusiastic, hard working, and darn good looking to boot. She had no idea how she’d attracted them in the first place. Just lucky, I guess. “Okay, that’s it. Go when it’s time for you to go; I’m back in my cloister.”

“Three messages for you, sugar.”

She looked at Robbie. “Anything important?”

“The papers for the condo came in.”

“Oh yeah. I have to approve them and fax them back. Where are they?”

“I put them on your desk.”

“Okay, anything else important?”

“No.”

“Fine. Pass the other stuff to Tracy. Whatever you can’t handle, Trace, I’ll deal with in the morning. Okay?” Nods all around. “Okay. Good night, folks.”

She turned, walked back up the stairs and into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She liked to have these meetings around normal quitting time, just in case one of them actually had a date or something. But if they were true to form, most of them wouldn’t leave for hours and one of them would make sure food was ordered. Aaaah. Pizza. Normally, Marcie would work until around eleven and then go down to the gym for a workout and a sparring session, if she could find a karate partner. She rarely slept before midnight and she rarely got up before eight.

She sat down in front of her computer and thought about her progress. Since things weren’t adding up, she decided she would go through every entry…even if it took her until Friday. Two hours later, someone brought her two slices of pizza. An hour after that, she put aside the newspaper, magazine, and other news sites so she could concentrate on more standard responses, like Helen’s own sites that covered Helen’s take on her life, her family, her interests and her volunteer work. Helen was living a very suburban life, except there were no kids yet. Clearly, they were trying but hadn’t been able to conceive. In her web page, she mentions she’d like to have a family again; both her parents had died when she was ten. When no other relatives came forward, Helen was placed in a foster home where, apparently, she had thrived.

Nothing struck Marcie as out of the ordinary. She felt Pearce was probably right. If Helen had been faking it all this time, then this was an award-winning performance. Probably better than any she had ever seen. On the other hand, nothing in these pages suggested why she would be a target for abduction. She was just an average woman.

Except that Marcie could also see why the police assumed there was some hanky-panky going on. Helen Pearce was beautiful. She was tall and lithe, with curly auburn hair and green eyes. She looked like a runway model, but without the pouty cynicism that often showed on those models’ faces. She looked like a woman most men would find attractive.

At nine o’clock, Marcie switched from coffee to bottled water. She loved her coffee, but liked sleeping just as much.

After she came back to her computer, she started finding password-protected pages in the list with the name Helen Pearce in the keyword list – odd for such a general search. When Marcie searched on government topics, many entries came back encrypted or protected by password, but not usually on a search about an otherwise average citizen. Marcie was intrigued. Nothing in Helen’s background suggested any mystery. She decided to rip one off.

As long as she didn’t hack into a computer, Marcie didn’t worry about getting caught nor feel even one little twinge of guilt. If you honestly thought you could leave a page out there on the Internet, encrypted or otherwise, without defending it behind server passwords and protocols, and you thought it would be safe, you were an idiot. Marcie didn’t like idiots and tended to actively thwart them at every turn. She downloaded one of the protected pages and was reading it within five minutes.

It was a terse communication dated about three weeks before and noted that “…Helen Pearce had been incarcerated at the Institution.” What institution? Marcie was put off by the swastika she found at the bottom right hand corner of the page. What? Some weird neo-neo-neo-Nazi group? She opened another of the uselessly protected pages. Nazi-types locked things up because they locked up everything. They liked to keep everyone in the dark because it was the only way they could keep control. The second encrypted page was similar to the first and had more information about movements and incarcerations of people. Marcie made a note of the names. Again, there was a small swastika at the bottom of the page.

Marcie sorted her responses on encryption and found one more page like the first two. She noted all the names mentioned on all three pages and sent an email to Jeff with instructions to try and track these people down and see if there were any connections between them.

She didn’t think this was a coincidence. She opened another browser and did a search on “swastika, meaning of” and she found out that before WWII, the swastika had meant something completely other than genocide and warmongering. It had meant good fortune and success. None of these pages mentioned Dr. Roper – the man who had run out of both luck and fortune.

She shrugged it off and went to the gym.

Thursday, June 24, 2083. 9:00 a.m.

A few frustrating days later, Marcie had waded through thousands of sites, but was no closer to learning anything of real value to the case. She checked herself in the mirror as she walked out of her bedroom on her way to the morning floor meeting. She stopped to grab a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Robbie stood up as she came down the stairs.

“When are you going home, Robbie?”

“I miss you when I’m not here, sugar.”

“Sure, sure.”

What was up with him? Marcie sat at her floor desk and checked her email as the rest of the staff settled down with coffees. They were a sombre, but expectant, group this morning. Marcie could tell that everyone was interested in what was going on. There was an email from Pearce saying they could come by anytime. He’d taken some time off work. Could he do anything to help as he was stir crazy? Well, maybe he could. There was a lot to do on his wife’s case, and every day more mysteries emerged, more questions were asked, and no answers were forthcoming. Perhaps he could make some telephone calls or do a little bit of legwork. She could read between the lines. He just wanted to be able to do something to help Helen.

Marcie routed a few other client emails straight to Tracy without even opening them. Tracy would let her know if she needed anything. Actually,…

“You know Tracy, you’re handling this very well. Thank you.” Marcie had pulled Jeff totally off the day-to-day work and assigned Dana and Kelly to Tracy. Tracy had taken over organizing everything, including client communications. Marcie hadn’t spoken to even one client in the last two days, which was great, because she needed the time.

Tracy smiled. “Oh, I’m enjoying this more than straight investigation. The clients are cool.”

That isn’t what Marcie would have said, but she kept it to herself. Tracy had always been in awe of the famous and the almost famous who came through the doors. Marcie had, almost to a person, found them spoiled and irritating, so she was secretly glad she wouldn’t have to nurse them all along anymore. She wondered how long it would take the shine to rub off Tracy’s pearl. Marcie gave her two weeks.

“Suck up.” Jeff was often petulant before he drank his coffee. He was looking tired. He’d done extensive background checks on dozens of people in the last few days. He must have been working twenty-hour days. It was an amazing puzzle they were trying to put together.

“Anything anyone needs to tell me?” General dissent and shakes of heads. “Anyone quitting in the next forty-eight hours?” Smirks all around. Great.   “Okay, Tracy, I want you to regularly check my email. I’ll leave it open on my desk. Handle everything that needs it and leave the rest. Also, please call the phone company and route my old phone code through the office permanently and get me a new code. Jeff, I have a new list for you from last night, if you can believe it, and Robbie, we’re going to the Pearce residence today, right?”

Robbie nodded. “As soon as we’re done, here.”

“Great.”

“Oh!” Jeff looked a bit stunned. Drink your coffee, lad. “I’ve altered a genealogy program to let us track the associations of these people – if there are any. I’ll need some help exporting data, making some phone calls to gather info and then doing some data entry.”

“Tracy, give Jeff one of the assistants for as long as he needs her.”

“Then, I need a temp in. Well, actually two. We’ve had twenty more jobs booked over the last two days. It isn’t as crazy as Monday, but it seems to be steady. Calls from all over the city, by the way, as far away as Newmarket.”

Why did I decide to advertise this month? “Do what you have to do.”

“Oh, can we have your desk for the day?” Tracy looked a little sheepish.

“Of course. Actually, you can have it, period. I’ve got all that hardware upstairs; that’s where I really work. And Jeff, listen. Do you use this desk down here?”

“Just for email, really. Reports, things like that. I’m usually too busy in the Stacks.”

“Can I boot you up there for good, then?”

“Oh yeah, sure, but I’ll need this computer.”

“Okay, Trace. You have two more desks and one more computer for good. So, get on the telephone and order another box, okay? Oh, and can you call Martha and see if she can do some extra bookkeeping over the next few weeks? I’d like to watch the escalating costs. I want to make sure all this new business is making sense.”

“I already called her.” Tracy looked sheepish again.

“Great.” Marcie smiled. She looked around and nothing more seemed forthcoming. “Okay? Let’s go, folks.”

She stood and walked out the door. Robbie was right on her tail. Her shadow. As she walked out she tapped her neck and said: “Greg Pearce.” The phone dialled as she punched the elevator button.

“Hello?”

“Hi Mr. Pearce. Marcie Noel. We’re on our way over.”

“Great. Look, is there anything I can do to help? I’ve taken some time off from work; I can’t concentrate anyway and I really want to be a part of…”

“I’m sure there’s a lot you can do. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“See you soon.”

“Great. I’ll put some coffee on.”

Good lad. She disconnected the call. A few moments later, they exited the elevator and walked up the flight of stairs to the roof. “You don’t want your own desk, do you Robbie?”

“No way.”

“Okay.”

The flight over was uneventful: about ten minutes in the low lanes for local traffic, but it still gave them a nice view of the city on a beautiful, sunny day. Lake Ontario was a sea of diamonds. They descended as they approached the eastern suburb, and they came to rest on the Pearce’s driveway.

The house was modest. Bungalow style, and exactly like every fourth house on the street, it was painted in mocha and cream with cinnamon accents, very subdued. Marcie sniffed. She preferred a little less cream and a little more spice in her life. There was a rose garden in front that Pearce was obviously keeping up – quite an achievement considering the trouble visiting the house. In his place, Marcie was sure she’d let the garden go. An old style garage had been modified with a roof hatch for the family PA.

Robbie and Marcie went up to the front door, which was standing open for them. Marcie walked in with Robbie right behind her.

“Hi Mr. Pearce!” No answer. She could smell the coffee brewing in the kitchen. “Mr. Pearce?” Still nothing. She and Robbie looked at each other.

“You stay here, sugar. I’ll go upstairs.”

“Sure.”

Robbie disappeared up the stairs in a flash. He could really move for a man his size. She heard him calling out for Pearce. Marcie did a quick turn around the main floor, which was tastefully furnished from major department stores, nothing too expensive or flash. On her way by, she looked out the sliding doors to the back veranda and the yard beyond. The Pearces had a fairly large pool and a beautiful flower garden. At the back of the property, there was a shed that Marcie could see was closed and padlocked, and a small vegetable plot. No sign of Pearce. She checked the sky and saw quite a few PAs ascending into the lanes over Scarborough. He could be in any one of them. But why would he run? He wouldn’t. Could someone have picked him up? She heard Robbie come back down the stairs. He stepped back into the hallway and made eye contact. She shook her head.

“I’m down.” She heard him walk down the stairs to the basement, again calling out for Pearce as he went. She walked back to the front door and looked around the yard. She stepped out onto the porch and, again, looked at the sky. A lot of traffic was climbing to merge with the lanes. There would be no way to know if one of them had come from this house. She looked around the neighbourhood. It was a quiet street with neat little houses, most of them in good shape. All in repose. Greg Pearce could be being held right now in any one of those little houses, behind any of those windows with pretty curtains. She sighed and walked back inside.

Robbie met her as he came up from the basement. He shook his head.

“Okay, let’s take the opportunity to look around. We’ll start on the second floor.” Robbie nodded and followed her up the stairs.

Two hours later, they were none the wiser. They couldn’t conduct a real search for fear of the police charging them with obstruction, so they wore latex gloves and disturbed very little. They found what you might expect in a suburban home. She was a gardener; he liked model trains. There were books on both. She used a running machine in front of the TV in the basement. He had a separate weight room. She liked romance novels. He preferred magazines. They were trying to conceive a child and there were many books and journals on the subject. There were photo albums. There were vegetarian cookbooks. Apparently, they ate a lot of vegetables and tofu. The house was well tended, clean and neat. Nothing had been disturbed. Nothing taken. There was a case with silverware, lots of electronics, and jewellery. The only thing of value in their investigation was an address book.

Marcie searched the book for family entries, found one, and called Pearce’s mother in Montreal. She explained what had happened and suggested Mrs. Pearce call the police if she heard nothing from Pearce by tomorrow, but despite Marcie’s advice – the police wouldn’t even consider him missing for at least twenty-four hours – the woman insisted on coming right over.

While they waited, Robbie ordered pizza. Mrs. Pearce arrived just as they were finishing their meal. She was a short, plump woman with slate grey hair pulled back into a loose bun. She looked at them with haunted eyes. Marcie just shook her head.

“We’ll find him, Mrs. Pearce.”

“Find them both, please, Ms. Noel. They were so happy before all this happened.”

“We’ll try.”

“I understand Greg was paying you Ms. Noel.”

“Yes, but don’t worry….”

“You must consider yourself in my employ, Ms. Noel. Greg was getting his money from me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She’s loaded? “But don’t spend your savings. I…”

“Nonsense, Ms. Noel.”

“Fine. We’ll need you to authorize some paperwork.”

“Whatever you like.” She sighed and looked around. “I think I’ll stay here for a while. You can contact me here.”

“Fine.” Marcie gave her a business card and asked some of the usual questions. She received the usual answers. It was rare that someone’s mum knew anything really helpful about his or her life. Mum knew only what you wanted her to.

Marcie and Robbie left a few minutes later and flew back to the office. Neither had to say it was too much of a coincidence that Greg Pearce disappeared this morning. Clearly, he’d been watched. He was probably under surveillance since he hired someone to crack that hospital computer, perhaps before. Perhaps they started tailing him the first time he made a stink at the hospital.

The police would put another spin on it. They would assume the bird had flown, that Greg and Helen were working together the whole time. It’d been done before. Besides, Greg already proved he could be a little violent; he probably had a bit of a history of it. The police might believe he killed Roper.

But Marcie was sure the case wasn’t so simple. If this pair was, in fact, an average suburban couple as they appeared, then something else was going on here. Who would want to abduct Greg Pearce? And, why?

“So, if Pearce was being watched, then almost certainly someone is watching us too?”

“Right. So no more cell calls. That includes your earphone.”

“But I love my phone.” All cell phone calls, including earphones, were far too easy to trace, far too easy to monitor. Every time she used her earphone, someone with the code and access to the system could pinpoint her location in seconds.

“Too bad.”

She’d also have to beef up security around the office. Some changes would have to be made. She walked in the loft door.

“Tracy!”

“Yeah.”

“I need a revised Pearce contract, please. Same contract, but the client name is now Cecily Pearce. Send the revised copy over to the Pearce residence for approval as soon as you can.”

“No problem.”

“And Jeff?”

“Yeah.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Friday, June 25, 2083. 9:15 a.m.

The next morning, Marcie sat at her bedroom computer, thinking. A tap came at the door and Tracy popped her head in.

“It’s hard to have the morning meeting without you, you know.”

“I thought you hated meetings.”

“Yeah, well. I do.”

Marcie got up and followed her out of the bedroom and down the stairs to where everyone was waiting.

“Okay troops, what gives?”

They looked blankly at each other, but then Tracy took the lead.

“The number of new cases coming in has settled down to about ten per day and, though we have quite a backlog, I think we can catch up without hiring anybody else. I expect the rate to taper off slowly until you decide to advertise some more. You’re not going to do that in the immediate future, are you?”

“No, no.” Marcie responded absently. Then, she smiled. “Maybe a TV commercial, Trace. But let me think about it.”

Tracy smiled. “Yeah, well. Your new phone code is AE5-7872. The office is picking up all other calls. Oh, we’re getting a lot more inquiries from reporters. Maybe because of the advertising, who knows? One guy offered two-hundred thousand dollars for an interview on the Hayworth family.”

“Policy does not change. If we take the two-hundred grand, no one calls us again because they can’t trust us. So what’s the point?”

“Okay.”

“Next.”

“Me.” said Robbie. “I went out to the doctor’s office and the place was locked up. I took a look around and I think the service door in the back was broken into because it looks recently fixed. With Jeff’s help, I’ve got the info I need on the staff and I have interviews set up with two part time nurses and a receptionist. I’m also going to see the widow. All four meetings are set for today, so I’ll have something to tell you this evening, if there’s anything to tell.”

“Great. Next.” Jeff raised his hand.

“Not great news, my end. I’m going through these lists of people and it’s not going well. But that in itself is interesting. I’m pretty good at investigating people. I can find out anything about anybody given enough time. But these people? It’s like someone’s gone through their lives with an eraser. It’s slow going.”

“Any official missing persons on any of them?”

“No ma’am. Weird, huh? And, no real information, otherwise. Look, if they were the type of people to go into the hospital in the first place, they should have some kind of life, yeah? I mean, there’s the odd nut who won’t use the Internet, right? But that’s the odd nut. I find it hard to believe that all these people – ten from the McMaster files and another twenty-five from you research – I mean, I find it hard to believe that all these people are odd nuts. Something’s going on here. So, I had an idea: I thought I’d try to search the ‘Net for pages tagged for deletion. Deleted files don’t actually disappear right away; some sit there for years. I’ll be getting on that today. Oh yeah, and I thought I’d widen the search to outside of North America. That’s it. I’ll have to tell you the results over the next few days.”

“Fine. Good luck. Anyone else?” The new staff members were still far too timid. “All right, on my end, I’m still trying to do my research and I’m getting no where. Like you say, Jeff, someone’s gone through the ‘Net and wiped important information.” Marcie looked at a file folder on a desk a few feet away. The tag had been done in fluorescent pink over blue-penned capitals: EMERGENCY! She could read it clearly from about ten feet away. Tags. She gasped a little, slipped off her perch without ceremony and started walking upstairs. So simple.

“We’re done, then?” Tracy sounded amused.

Marcie stopped, turned around, and looked at her. “Absolutely.”

Marcie turned back toward the stairs, went up, and went straight to her computer, past the coffee machine that beckoned with the smell of a fresh brew. She sat down and pulled up some of the encrypted files she’d hacked a few nights before. She checked the source code on these files and found the tags that identified the picture file name for the swastika itself: swasti3.gif. She entered that name in a search of the entire Internet and waited.   Nothing came back immediately. Fifteen minutes later, she was still waiting. So, she went and got a cup of coffee. She stopped in downstairs to see if all was well, and when she came back a half hour later, the search was finally complete and ten locations were returned. Only ten machines on the whole Internet hosted that gif file. She stared at her screen and wrestled with her conscience. These machines held the key, the information. She needed to know what was on these machines.

Friday, June 25, 2083. 5:30 p.m.

Later that afternoon, Marcie was continuing her research when her extension rang. She picked up the phone.

“Marcie Noel.” She stared at her computer screen, still open on the ‘swasti3.gif’ search results.

“Hey there, sugar. I’ve finished all the Roper interviews. I’m on my way back.”

“And?”

“Roper’s staff isn’t particularly loyal to his memory. The receptionist and the assistant both remember Helen Pearce and they’re both surprised about what happened. Not that they put it past the doctor to be attracted to his patients, apparently he was no saint, but they don’t see why Helen would bother with him. They both think if Helen Pearce were going to go after someone, she could’ve had a billionaire. Why would she settle for a guy like Roper?”

“And the referral to Hamilton?”

“He’d never sent anyone to Hamilton before. He rarely referred at all; he was a top specialist. People referred cases to him.”

“Okay. What about the family?”

“Roper’s widow was only too pleased to talk to me. She likes telling her story, boy, but something about her doesn’t add up.”

“Like…?”

“Like she’s lying about something or she’s happy he’s gone. The grief seemed forced, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure. Any other family we can get in touch with?”

“Oh yeah. Two grown kids.”

“Okay, make some appointments with the kids. I want to come on those interviews. Set it up for the weekend or Monday, whatever.”

“Got it.”

Saturday, June 26, 2083. 1:45 a.m.

Later that same night, or rather, very early the next morning, Marcie was still clacking away at her keyboard, but now, she was a little schnackered. Well, a lot schnackered. She was alone for the first time in a week. Robbie’d left that evening on business, saying he wouldn’t be back until morning. He often disappeared for days at a time – no warning, no explanation. Marcie wondered where he went, but she was never rude enough to ask. If he was some sort of drug dealer, frankly, she didn’t want to know.

Cecily Pearce called a few moments after he left.

“Ms. Noel?”

“Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

“Ms. Noel, I don’t think the police are going to help me find my son.”

“Why not?”

“Well, they told me to go down to the precinct and fill out some forms. I did that right away….”

“Yes?”

“Well, no one would speak to me, Ms. Noel. Is that usual?”

“No ma’am.” Distraught parents got ten minutes minimum with a detective if they filed a Missing Person Report. Even the most obviously cuckolded husband was treated with respect if he came down to the station and filed. The police had to be seen to be taking every inquiry seriously because distraught parents and spouses who felt unsupported liked to go to the papers. And, as part of the Metro Force’s community outreach program, everybody got treated with respect. Even the cranks. The Police Commissioner was hoping the new warm and fuzzy image would deflect attention away from the obvious problems with corruption and discrimination on the force. So, everybody got their ten minutes with a detective – except Mrs. Pearce.

“They said they consider Greg a suspect, not a missing person. No one would help me Ms. Noel. And now when I call, they won’t even talk to me.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Pearce. Let me see what I can do.” Well, that’d be exactly nothing if Marcie were going to play by the rules. She decided she would set up the hack. Nothing wrong in prepping, just in case she should decide to go ahead with it. Boy, am I rationalizing. But she set it up any way.

She spent the next two hours staring at a telnet connection, sipping scotch and contemplating life.

She bought access to a temporary I.P address from an outfit in Hong Kong that rented them out, asked no questions, and answered even fewer because they kept no records of transactions for longer than fifteen minutes – just enough time for the money to transfer into their bank account. She powered up a box and assigned it the fake IP and then she further covered her tracks by routing all her requests through an aliasing site. She successfully connected to another aliasing site through the first. There were few people on the planet who could trace these requests back to the machine she was using and most of them wouldn’t be interested in taking the time on the project – unless you dangled a lot of money in front of them. Besides, by the time anyone bothered, the machine she was working on would have effectively disappeared.

She’d written a brilliant piece of code she liked to call the ‘fly on the wall’. It would drop, in effect, a monitor to record keystrokes as they were entered. Then, all she’d have to do is wait until someone tried to log in to the target server. The ‘fly’ would record their log-in name and password and she’d be in. She could run the code to monitor all ten servers and just wait.    It was foolproof. Well, mostly. If there were any other solution, she wouldn’t hesitate to try it. She’d promised herself years ago she wasn’t going to hack into computers anymore. It just wasn’t right.

But the authorities weren’t giving her any options. She was sure if she went to the police with her suspicions it would only be a matter of time before she disappeared herself. The lack of response to Greg and Cecily Pearce’s inquiries smacked of conspiracy. Unless there were damning facts on this case that hadn’t been made public, she was sure most good detectives would come to a similar conclusion – it was unlikely Helen Pearce killed Clyde Roper. And if that were true, Greg Pearce’s disappearance becomes much more sinister. Therefore, it became likely that Helen Pearce was herself abducted or murdered. Why, then, had Cecily been ignored at the police station? What if the person who kidnapped Pearce, also killed Roper? Wouldn’t the detectives in charge of the Roper investigation want to talk to her just in case? It all made no sense and made Marcie leery of going anywhere near the police.

She only had one lead – the ‘neo-neo-neo-Nazis’. She had a hunch that even if they weren’t behind the disappearances, they were definitely wrapped up in the whole thing and she liked to follow her hunches. What she was considering was unethical at best, and certainly illegal. She felt like she needed some kind of guidance, some kind of sign. She couldn’t just go back on a personal oath to never hack again, just like that.

About an hour later, the scotch won the debate. She passed out, sitting up, staring at her computer screen.

Saturday, June 26, 2083. 7:00 a.m.

A rock band was playing an arrhythmic tune. Bang, bang, bang. Silence. Bang, bang, bang. “Open up!” Bang, bang, bang, bang.

Marcie opened her eyes and groaned. She’d slept in her chair, her head lolling back. Her neck felt like it needed major surgery and her mouth tasted like the surface of the moon.

Someone broke down the door downstairs.

Marcie tried to stand and managed the feat the second time around. When they busted into her room, she was sort of prepared to meet them.

“Marcie Noel?”

“Yes.”

“Marcie Noel, we need you to come down to the station for questioning.”

Marcie stared at him and at the I.D. he shoved in her face. Metropolitan Police Force. Right. Okay. Water! “About what?” She croaked those two words. She was sure she’d never croaked before in her life.

“The murder of Dr. Clyde Roper.”

What the…? She allowed herself to be taken in without argument. In what seemed like less than a minute, she was in the back seat of a smelly ground cruiser that must have been fifty years old. A few minutes later, they hustled her out of the cruiser and into the local police station. She was marched into an interview room and was left there to stew. She relaxed and waited. She knew they expected her to do something stupid, like try to warn her accomplices on her earphone. Many criminals did not know that the police could legally monitor any earphone or cell phones transmissions made by anyone in a police station – not just suspects. And this statute included defence lawyers. Landlines, however, were still unmonitored. She would have to wait until they gave her access to a telephone. They left her a long time. Evidently they were waiting for her to make a phone call or break down. Apparently, they had no evidence. So, she simply had to wait and do everything by the book and she’d be out in a few hours. She sat in the sparely furnished room, staring at the empty table, wishing for, almost willing to appear right in front of her, a cold, clean glass of water. She must have waited for over an hour, but she couldn’t be sure. Finally, the door burst open and Marcie winced at the sudden sound. A large plainclothes policeman came in, slammed the door, and sat down opposite her.

“Ms. Noel?”

“Yes.”

“We have a few questions we need you to answer.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t talk to you without an attorney present.”

The policeman laughed. “Don’t you know you’re incriminating yourself with that very statement?”

Liar. So much for legal rights, when it’s considered incriminating to invoke them. Marcie decided she’d play the stricken socialite. “No, no, please! My lawyer made me promise!”

“Well, I tell you what. You answer one or two questions and I’ll see to it that the papers don’t hear about this.”

If the papers hear about this, officer, you’ll be out of a job and you know it. “No, I’m truly sorry.” She made a show of trying not to cry. “But my lawyer was clear about this.” She faked breaking down and crying. She put her head in her hands.

The policeman was silent for a moment. Then, she heard an exasperated sigh from him. He had no more respect for her than he had for an ant on the floor. Good. All right, I should get a telephone in here soon.

“All right. We’ll get you a telephone.”

“Okay.” Marcie forced the word out between sniffles. “Oh, and do you have some tissues?”

“Yeah, sure.” The officer got out of there quickly. A few minutes later, another officer came in with a telephone and a box of Kleenex. Good cop, hmmmm?

“Miss? Miss?” He had a kindly voice and demeanour. “Miss, are you all right? I brought the telephone so you can make a call. And here are your tissues.”

“Oh! Thank you, thank you.” She reached for the telephone and a tissue at the same time. She pretended to wipe her nose while she dialled Wilbur Poole, her lawyer. The service answered immediately.

“Marcie Noel for Wilbur Poole, please. This is an emergency.” There was some waiting. She heard the call rerouted twice.

“Marcie?”

“Will? I’m in trouble. They have me down at the police station on Queen West.”

“Okay, Marcie. Don’t say a thing. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay, Will. Oh, and bring me a bottle of water, huh?”

She hung up the telephone and looked at the ‘good’ cop. He smiled.

“I’m Detective Rolf, Ms. Noel. If there’s anything I can do for you, just say the word.”

“Great. I’d like out, please.” Rolf’s smile disappeared. His tactics weren’t working. “No? In that case, just bring me a Coke, okay?” Rolf just stared at her. “No?” Fine. Marcie sighed.

Will would be here in a few minutes to demand her release and because the police had nothing, she would walk. The police were clearly fishing or they would’ve charged her with something by now. Rolf made a couple of other attempts to gain her confidence and then gave up and left her alone to wait.

Will must have been around the corner because she was out in half an hour. She was happy to see him. He was always there when she needed him. They walked out onto Queen Street as Marcie finished her bottle of water. It was barely nine o’clock in the morning on a Saturday and the street was littered with the detritus from the crowds the night before. A street cleaner buzzed by like a hungry insect. Will checked his watch as if he had somewhere to go. Even on a Saturday morning, Will was dressed for business. He was one of the hardest working lawyers she knew, especially where human rights, especially the rights of children, were concerned. She’d probably interrupted him on his way to or from an advocacy meeting. He took her arm and steered her to the left toward his parked PA.

“So, they want to know what you’re doing consorting with known murders and swindlers.”

“Well, that’s the point, Will. The Pearces are not ‘known’ anything. They’ve been tried and convicted in the press; that’s all.”

“I have to tell you the police are pretty certain themselves.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Someone phoned in a tip, Marcie, that’s why. Watch yourself. Oh, and please don’t get thrown in jail again for the next two weeks. I am on vacation.”

“You?”

“Yes, me. What are you implying?”

Wilbur had never, to Marcie’s knowledge, taken a vacation. He had certainly never talked about one. “Where are you going? Paris, Rome?”

“Oh no. I’m going fishing.”

“Fishing?”

“What? My family’s had a cabin on the north shore of Kitchie Lake for generations. It’s way up there. North of Timmins. Rustic.” They arrived at his PA, a current model Porsche with all the bells and whistles.

“Have you ever been there before?”

“Oh, no.”

Marcie waited for him to explain himself as she opened her door and reached into the PA to remove a bag on the passenger seat, but he stopped talking. He could be stubborn, so she dropped the subject and climbed in. The bag was from the Tilley store, a place that sold upmarket outdoorsy clothes. She tried not to giggle. The idea of Wilbur Poole in red plaid shirt, a Tilley vest and Tilley fishing hat sitting in a rowboat was too funny. Will just ignored her. They were only a few blocks from the Loft, but Will flew her there and dropped her on the roof.

When she walked into the Loft, she found that every member of the staff, including three eager young temps, had opted to come into work for the day. And they were standing in the shambles. The power was out and the place had been turned upside down, some parts of it literally.

“Oh, great.” Marcie was having a very bad day.

Saturday, June 26, 2083. 6:00 p.m.

Marcie finally closed the door as the last of her staff went home except, of course, for Robbie. He was already set up on the main floor with a sleeping bag. He simply wouldn’t listen to her when she told him to go home.

The police came to log the break-in by around noon and this process had taken hours. Then, an electrician arrived and tried to hook up power while everyone worked on fixing the place up and checked on what was missing or broken. One of the hardest tasks was putting the Stacks back together because there were thousands of CD’s, MC’s, fiches, and hundreds of books up there. Some things were broken, but nothing of real value, and nothing appeared to be missing. About five o’clock, the wiring had been patched and the lights went on. Everyone rushed to watch the security tapes. They showed a man of average height and stocky build, in a simple white t-shirt, jeans and a balaclava over his head. No distinguishing markings. The intruder was recorded walking over to the power back-up units and systematically pulling cables. Very soon thereafter, the screen went black. These were pros. They would be impossible to catch. People started leaving very soon afterward.

“All right, if you’re going to stay here, then you have to work.” Marcie was feeling a bit petulant.

“I am working, sugar.” Marcie looked over the rail at Robbie who was sitting on Tracy’s desk cross-legged, playing a Gameboy. “I’m watching you.”

“Oh no. You can’t sit down there by yourself. You have to come up here and talk to me. What do you want for dinner?”

They ended up ordering from a Thai place down the street, but Robbie wouldn’t go and get the food by himself. Marcie had to accompany him – for her safety, he said. So, they went out into the early evening together.

The traffic on the street was often at its worst this time of day. The revellers were arriving while the last of the workers were leaving. The cafes and bars were filling up, the retail offices were closing, and the stores were changing the guard. The streets were packed. Robbie and Marcie shouldered their way down the busy sidewalk, to My Thai, a little hole in the wall that served the best Thai food in the district. The order was ready when they got there. Marcie paid and Robbie carried. Marcie kept looking around to see if anyone was paying them too much attention. She couldn’t peg anyone in particular and they got back without incident.

“Okay,” said Marcie as they came in the door. “Didja see anyone?”

“Na. Didn’t expect to.”

“Me neither, but someone’s gotta be watching us. The break-in doesn’t fit the style of the police around here. It’s too obvious, even for them.”

“Unless they want you to think that it couldn’t be them.”

“Sure, Robbie, but that’s a little convoluted don’t you think? They can get a legal search and seizure on suspicion. They really don’t need to pull a trick like this. I’m sure the break-in is linked to the Pearce case. I hate coincidences. This one is too big to ignore, and besides, I think I know who did it. It wasn’t the government at all.” Marcie was stewing. “I think I know.”

“Okay, so shoot.”

“The ‘neo-neo-neo-Nazis’.”

“Who?”

“But what were they looking for? They turned everything upside down and they didn’t steal a thing. I think they wanted to know what I know and I think all they did was download our data on the Pearce case. I’m going to crack one of their machines. Tit for tat, I say.”

“Sure, sugar. So who has Greg Pearce?”

“The ‘neo-neo-neo-Nazis’!”

“Why?”

Marcie looked at him blankly. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

After they finished eating, Robbie went back to his Gameboy and a soccer match on the television. Marcie went back to her room.

She powered up the machine with the rented IP, popped another browser, opened a few telnet sessions, and started setting up some nice, clean, brand-spanking-new aliases. When she was hiding behind three layers of alias, she stopped and did a search on ‘swasti3.gif’ again. She was ready to go in.

A half an hour later, the search came back with a null result. Damn! That search was right on this screen. The ‘neo-neo-neo-Nazis’ got the information they needed and did a little damage control.

She searched back in the memory of her scotch-addled brain. Was that only last night? She remembered only one server location: 1941::213:39:10:5. She would start there.

She opened the telnet and immediately encountered password style security protocols in operation at 1941::213:39:10:5. She dropped her monitor program to track keystrokes and waited. It was only a matter of time. She got up and poured some coffee – avoiding the scotch like the plague.

Three hours later, her computer beeped. She’d been dozing in her chair, but she popped up awake and started typing immediately. With her multi-layered persona, she logged into the site as quickly as she could and requested a file list. Some security systems could catch a monitor in action. If this one had, then time was of the essence. Marcie wanted to get as much out as she could before the machine shut itself down.

There were approximately ten thousand files on this server in a very simple directory tree, representing just over one thousand gig of data. Without knowing what files were important, and what ones weren’t, and not having the luxury of time she needed to investigate, Marcie executed a filecopy all command. She copied the files to a remote location and from there to another, and then another; all remote and all untraceable to her machine because the traceable locations and personae were aliased. The trail would be near impossible to follow. Once at the third location, Marcie executed an immediate download of data – just in case they tried to stop her. Then, she sat back to see just how many files got out – and then just how many files made it to her machine. She felt that old rush she used to when she made a good hack. This was going to work.

Ten minutes later, server 1941::213:39:10:5 shut down as the eight-hundred and fifty-ninth file was being transferred. A real coup. The remote server security was a little slow on the uptake. Marcie assumed that would never happen again. She watched the trail as the files continued their journey. As the files made the second jump, Marcie could see someone was trying to delete them at the same time. Some hotshot was on the trail. Only seven hundred and eighty files made the second jump and then six hundred and fifty made the third. But hotshot boy didn’t make the third jump. All remaining six hundred and fifty files came down to her computer.

She set to clearing any trace of her aliases, her personalities, and her connection to all remote locations. Within sixty seconds, she was clear. She double-checked her work and fifteen seconds later, for security, shut down not only her machine but also her network connection to the Internet. Then, she re-powered up the box she was working on and reconfigured the IP address back to normal.   It was about ten o’clock. When she powered up and logged onto the Internet again in the morning, no one would be able to find the machine that made the hack, because the address, in effect, would have disappeared. A year or so from now, when that outfit in Hong Kong re-rented the IP, no one would care.

For Marcie, hacking was the science of pretending to be someone else for the short period of time you were doing what you should not oughta. Now, to the spoils.

First, she copied the six hundred and fifty files three times onto MC. One went to the Stacks, one went into her desk drawer, and one went into an envelope and down the mail slot just up the hall, addressed to her mother a few kilometres away. Robbie insisted on accompanying her to mail slot.

By the time she was done, she was dog-tired, but she went to the gym as usual, to appease The Watchers as she’d started to call them. She didn’t want to do anything out of the ordinary, give anything away. She could read the information when she got back.

Robbie was right on her tail and followed her all the way to the gym. Marcie didn’t know whether to be flattered or irritated by his behaviour, but she drew the line when he wanted to come into the change room with her. Granted, at that time of night there were no other girls in the place and the change room would be deserted, but Marcie didn’t like flying too much in the face of tradition. She changed on her own. Besides, she loved those moments of peace before a match.

Ben’s Gym was fifty years old, and sometimes Marcie thought you could smell every drop of sweat that had been shed here. The change room probably hadn’t been painted in the last thirty of those fifty years – if ever – and there were no saunas, coffee bars, or comfy chairs to sit in. There were trainers, but no personal ones. There were boxing rings and sparring mats, punching bags and weights. No boom boxes. No walking machines. No babysitting services. It was certainly not a gathering place for the latte crowd and that suited Marcie. In fact, she loved it here. Sadly, there were rumours that old Sam (the original Ben was long dead) was ready to sell the place. The new owner would be crazy if he or she didn’t turn it into a spa and aerobics haven with all the choice clientele wandering the streets. Marcie would have to find somewhere else to go.

She changed into traditional karate garb, moving slowly, centring. She stood in front of the mirror, tying her black belt around her waist and trying to put the last few days out of her mind. She needed a break. When she came out, she could see another black belt over on the karate mats who seemed to be looking for someone to play with. Marcie assessed him as a possible opponent. He was no taller than she, but he was clearly stronger and heavier. She looked around for a more evenly matched opponent but seeing no one, she sighed and walked over.

“Want to work out?” She smiled at him.

He looked at her, obviously sizing her up. Most men new to the gym laughed at her when she suggested a sparring session. That was fine. It got Marcie’s blood going. She liked beating men who could not imagine being bested by a girl. But this man was not of that kind. He was truly trying to assess her ability and her strength as an opponent. She liked that.

“Sure,” he said finally. “I’m Reef Callum.”

“Hi Reef. Marcie Noel.”

He walked to the far corner of the mat without saying another word, leaving Marcie to slip off her sandals and prepare herself in peace.

These fights were for practice with very little serious contact. It was a good workout for the body and the mind. Marcie set her things down, and breathed deeply for a few moments. When she was ready, she stepped out onto the mats.

Her opponent was already waiting for her. They each bowed as is customary and then both adopted their own defensive stance. He had a mean look in his eye and Marcie felt herself bristle, ready for anything. Suddenly, Callum leaped in the air with a blood-curdling cry and came down at Marcie with a kick meant to break an opponent’s neck.

For some reason, Marcie was ready for the attack. He’s serious! Surprising even herself, she managed to sidestep Callum’s foot, whirl around and land a solid kick of her own on his chest as he came down, which threw him off enough that he fell on the mats a couple of feet away. She turned back to him and she caught the look in his eye. This was no practice match. This was for real. This guy was trying to kill her and he looked a little miffed that his first hit hadn’t done the job. There were no surveillance devices in Ben’s Gym. Sam thought cameras were stupid – they stopped the guys from doing what they wanted. Too true.

Callum seemed energized by their first pass and popped up like a cork in water, coming at her again. Marcie knew she was in trouble. Oh the better part of valour. But she was in too close to be able to turn and run without leaving her back open to a serious hit. Instead, she executed a flip to get away from Callum and to relative safety. Callum shifted immediately. Marcie hated close quarters; she needed to buy herself some time. She focused and kicked.

The shot was well directed and caught Callum full in the face. His head snapped back and he fell backward on the mat. Marcie did not pause to wait for him to get up. She closed with the intent of trying to pin him on the mat, but he got a good grip on her wrist as she approached and used his left leg on her chest to throw her over his head. She rolled smoothly, unhurt, and just as smoothly came up on her feet ready to face Callum again, but the man was running toward the fire exit with Robbie chasing him. Marcie followed. As Marcie and Robbie rushed after Callum, he crashed through the fire door and disappeared out onto Queen Street.

Marcie and Robbie were only seconds behind as they went through the door, but Callum was already in a grey Escabar PA, the most popular PA on the market. There were millions of them out there and they were all grey. Of course, the PA’s plate was so dirty, they couldn’t read it. Marcie and Robbie stood at the doorway, watching the vehicle take off, powerless to give chase.

“Jeez.” Marcie was disappointed. Who sent you Mr. Callum?

“Okay, that’s it for sparring. No more.”

“Forget it.”

“Then you spar with me from now on.”

“Okay.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Thanks for reading Chapter 2. If you liked this chapter and want to encourage Jacqui to post more chapters and write more books, please click on one of the sponsored links on this page. Thanks!

Jacqui Burke is a Freelance Director/Writer/Theatrical Teacher. At time of posting, projects include: Shakespeare is Boffo! March Break Camp for 9-15 year olds; Wrong For Each Other for Encore Entertainment, opening late March; and The Mayan Prediction, this years Toronto Homeschoolers Kidsplay. Up to date information on Jacqui's projects can be found at her website.

Thanks, as always, to John for his ongoing support and Brenda for her ongoing inspiration.

The Pretender - Chapter 1

2012-02-21T07:57:00.000-08:00

Friday, April 16, 2083

         Dr. Roper picked up the telephone and tried to relax. He dialled the number. This patient was a lovely young woman. He couldn’t help but wonder to what fate he was sending her. The telephone rang once. Roper settled back into his office chair, starting to feel a bit more confident now that he had made the decision to make the call. She’s a homebody. She’ll be there. He read, from the conclusion of the legal document on his desk, General Directive to Canadian Physicians from the Government of Canada: “Physicians, therefore, are required to report any and all patients conforming to the criteria above. Patients who have suffered any of the following diseases are exempt from this directive….”

“Hello?”

“Hi there. Dr. Roper here.”

“Oh doctor. So good to hear from you.”

“I don’t have anything definitive to tell you; so let me apologize for that right off. We need you to come in for more tests.”

“Sure, when do you want to do them?”

“That’s up to you. These tests are extensive; so you have to go into the hospital.”

“That’s a little scary. I’ve never been in the hospital.”

I’m sure you haven’t. “This kind of procedure usually has a waiting list months long, but I’ve had a cancellation for this weekend. Would you like to take her place?”

“Yes, I would really appreciate that. I hate waiting.”

“All right. Go to the McMaster University Medical Centre tomorrow morning at ten a.m.”

“But that’s in Hamilton.”

“Yes, it’s a bit of a hike, but it means no waiting. Report to Admitting on the main floor. You’ll have to stay over night.”

“Over night?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be done by Sunday afternoon, okay?” Roper held his breath. Is she turning me down? He was surprised. She was dedicated to having a child.

“Okay.” The voice was uncertain, a bit tentative. Like she knows something.

“Fine, then. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Fine. Oh, and doctor?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks so much. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“No problem. Good-bye.”

“Bye.”

Roper hung up the telephone and looked at the two men sitting across the table from him. They were shady types. Roper was surprised they were working for the government. The older man with the salt and pepper slicked-back hair actually gave Roper the creeps. He looked capable of anything.

Roper raised his eyebrows. “Okay?”

“There’s just one more thing, Doctor.”

Saturday, June 19, 2083 10:00 a.m.

Marcie Noel couldn’t help but feel a little full of herself. This move would definitely be a move up. Looking out the floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows, she could see the city laid out in front of her. It reminded her of just how small she was. Wow. What’s the view from the office?

She walked into the bare room that would be her home office and stared out another floor-to-ceiling window that displayed a magnificent view of the lake and the city at the same time. She could put her desk right in the centre of the room, run the cable through the floor, and have this beautiful vista to stare at while she was working. Darn sight better than what she had now.

This condo was fantastic: a large two-bedroom with solarium, huge bathroom, squash courts, gym, swimming pool, PA landing pad and parking on the roof. And it had a nice roof lobby. So few buildings had that yet. Marcie looked around. It seemed a little stark, a little antiseptic. Perhaps a coat of paint? She frowned. What’s bugging me about this place? Marcie couldn’t put her finger on it. She didn’t feel completely comfortable.

Kerri Belson, the realtor, coughed politely, signalling her entrance into the room. She was a short, beautiful woman, with blond hair, blue eyes, and an earnest face. She looked barely thirty, but was ten years older, and she was tops in her field; Marcie settled for nothing but the best these days.

“Did I tell ya or did I tell ya?”

Marcie smiled and turned to her. “Oh yeah. It’s perfect. Far from the madding crowd.”

“But…?” Kerri let the question hang in the air.

“But, what?”

“There’s something you’re not sure of?”

“Maybe it’s the newness of the building. I’m used to a place with a bit more, well, character.”

“Don’t tell me you’re really going to miss the bums on Queen Street?”

Marcie laughed and shook her head. “No, I won’t miss the bums, Kerri.”

“Right. So, you want to place an offer.”

“Absolutely.”

Marcie was a private investigator whose clientele drew from Toronto’s rich and trendy. She was also a reformed hacker. In her teens, she won the annual Hacker Deface Contest three years in a row. She was famous in some circles. At twenty-five, part of her was embarrassed by these achievements and part of her was so proud, she wanted to put it on her resume. Of course she couldn’t. She was lucky she’d smartened up before she’d turned eighteen. She had no criminal record. Criminal records don’t help your creditability in this business.

“When do you want to take possession?”

“Now, of course.” Her ‘phone beeped quietly in her ear, signalling a caller. “Excuse me.” She turned back to that spectacular view and pressed her neck lightly under her right ear lobe. “Marcie Noel.” She wasn’t sure she liked being so plugged in, but it was either in or out in her world. She’d rather be in.

“Marce, hey, it’s me.”

She hated that. She worked hard to try and place the voice, but she couldn’t figure it out. She never understood why people assumed she would know who was calling.

“Me who?”

“Dave Welsh.”

“Sorry?”

“From the Oxygen Bar on Thursday night.”

Heck, this was Saturday. Did he expect her to remember that far back? And jeeze, she talked to, oh, hundreds of people each day. Dopey me. But she still didn’t remember him.

“Sorry?”

“You are some piece of work.” He sounded irritated.

“Sorry?” Sometimes, she disliked being Canadian. It seemed to limit her vocabulary, especially when she was supposed to be saying f-you.

“I bought you the drink. The fuzzy navel.”

“Mr. Welsh. I don’t drink fuzzy navels, and I think you’re confused.” She had been at the Oxygen Bar on Thursday night, but she had had nothing to drink. She was working, meeting a client. Dave Welsh? No bells. She’d never met this jerk. She sighed. Just some reporter trying to get info on a client.

“Well, then how did I get your number? Answer that.”

She hung up. She simply couldn’t figure out a polite way to say f-you; so she opted for a lesser insult. Her ‘phone code was in every book in the great city of Toronto, on three billboards, in various in-print newspaper adverts, and splashed all over four websites. She had just started an advertising campaign that she hoped would bring in a lot more business. That’s how a fledgling business turned into a real going concern. Besides, she wanted a bit of a challenge. The daily grind had gotten a bit boring. Hmmm. I wonder where he got my number. These kinds of calls were coming in more frequently: hangers-on, gold-diggers, wanna-knows, reporters wanting information.

When she started this business, she prided herself in being on the frontline when dealing with clients. When you called Noel and Associates, you got Marcie Noel right off, no waiting. Customer service is how you build a service business. But it was getting too irritating and counter-productive to answer the ‘phone. She was going to have to start routing all calls through the office. Perhaps it was time for a new personal code as well?

Kerri caught her look. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know. He said his name was Dave Welsh.”

“That’s funny.”

“What?”

“I know a Dave Welsh.”

“Great, who the heck is he?” Kerri laughed.

The ‘phone beeped again. Marcie decided to ignore it. She tapped her neck under her right earlobe twice. The beeping stopped. The system would take a message.

“The David Welsh I know I went to high school with. I haven’t a clue what he’d be up to now.”

Marcie just smiled and shook her head. “Oh! I have some questions about security.”

“Shoot.”

“How many views can I have of the roof?”

“Only the one.”

“And the ground lobby?”

“Only the one. A complete list of security features is here if you want to study it.” Kerri handed over a four colour glossy brochure on the building.

Hmmmm, I’ll have to install a few cameras of my own. “Thanks.” She hugged the brochure and looked around one more time. Maybe it’s just cold feet. “All right. Put the offer in.”

“I’ll have to warn you: This purchase will be competitive.”

“Kerri, I don’t care about the price, really. Just get it for me.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, I’m definitely going to change my ‘phone code over the next few days. Call the office if you’re looking for me.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, that’s it then?”

“That’s it. I’ll fax you the papers. You just need to sign them and fax them back.”

“Fine. See ya.”

Marcie lightly tapped under her ear twice again and walked out of the room. She surveyed the main room one more time. A small dining area, but a lovely large living room. Perhaps I’ll spend a little more time relaxing Maybe it’s time to enjoy the spoils. She turned to leave. As she stepped out the door, the ‘phone beeped again. Marcie answered.

“ Marcie Noel.” She walked down the hallway toward the elevators.

“Ms. Noel. My name is Steve Turner. I need some help.”

“What’s the problem, Mr. Turner?” Marcie punched the button to call the elevator.

“It’s my wife. She’s missing.”

“Missing persons isn’t my specialty, Mr. Turner. I have a friend I could refer you to.”

“Well, I’m not being clear. I actually think I know where she is. I…I need your help.” The elevator came and Marcie stepped in and punched UL for Upper Lobby. She really liked that. She would never have to touch the ground.

“Sounds like you need a divorce court.”

“No. I need your help, Valhalla.”

Well, a computer friend, then. Valhalla wasn’t her hacker name; it was the nick she used currently and only in one chat room – protected and monitored, a place where former hackers met and swapped stories. Currently, it was called safeinmyarms.com, but the domain changed frequently, sometimes weekly. Marcie waited to see what he had to say before she decided what to do. He invoked the name, but that just made her listen; it committed her to nothing.

“What kind of help?”

“Will you meet with me, please?”

She considered it. She hated face-to-face meetings, but she felt an obligation due to their shared connection. “Well, as my mother would say: How can I turn down such a polite request? Where?”

“How about the Oxygen Bar?”

“The Oxygen Bar?” She was nonplussed.

“Is there a problem?”

Marcie didn’t know what to say. She didn’t like coincidences; they made her feel out of control. “Yes I think there is. Meet me at the Eight Ball.”

“Okay. Thirty minutes.”

“Sure.”

Marcie stepped out of the elevator into a very nice, if a little small, Upper Lobby. She retrieved her keys from behind the desk, making a mental note never to leave them behind again – no doorman in sight. She went out onto the roof PA pad and got into her little ‘plane. She powered up and waited a minute or two while the vehicle ran through a lengthy, pre-flight check, then she backed to the centre of the PA pad. She put the PA on auto and said clearly: “Eight Ball Lounge” into a microphone on the dash. Then, she sat back while the vehicle connected with Flight Control. She could have made this jump without Flight Control if she liked – it was very short, but Marcie wanted to relax. It was Saturday after all and besides, it was prudent to keep a record of client meetings. Control confirmed her destination and the PA received a flight plan in about ten seconds. Then, the PA took off on its own, moved into the lower and slower intra-city stream of traffic without a hitch and headed north to its destination.

The skyline had risen steadily over the last hundred years, but Toronto was still a beautiful city. The newly opened Don Valley Cycling Park (it used to be a highway) cut a swath of green all the way to Newmarket. Toronto maintained its reputation for cleanliness and friendliness and, amongst the world’s great cities, Toronto was consistently ranked as one of the top five. Marcie loved living here.

She enjoyed the view while she considered buying a new PA; so she could get the Remote Start-up feature. Then, she could initiate the warm up sequence with a device she could carry on her person and the vehicle would be ready for her as soon as she got to it. I hate waiting.

Saturday, June 19, 2083 10:30 a.m.

Very few places were interesting at ten thirty on a Saturday morning, but the Eight Ball was one of those places. Hugh Pale, the owner, ran one of the city’s best billiard tournaments every Saturday starting at eight. Most of the players hadn’t gone to bed from the night before. By ten thirty, a few rounds were generally done and three quarters of the players had been knocked out. It was starting to get interesting.

Marcie came down the stairs from the roof and found a good stool in the observation lounge. She had a view of the top seed table and could also clearly see the bank of television vidscreens on the wall. Fun. She ordered a cappuccino and watched. Her ‘phone beeped again.

“Marcie Noel.”

“Steve Turner again, Ms. Noel. I’m here, but I don’t know what you look like.”

Marcie turned to look at the front door. There was a man there, tall, dark hair, coffee and cream skin, plain khaki pants and off-white t-shirt.

“I’m over here by the observation window.” She waved. He looked her way and waved back.

She tapped her neck to disconnect the ‘phone and her coffee came. She looked back at the billiard game in progress. The top seeds were a couple of players she didn’t know. They were both young and lanky and very serious, but one was clearly out of his league. He was about to be knocked out.

Turner joined her as the waiter left. Marcie tore her eyes from the game, turned around and smiled at him. She pegged him at mid to late twenties. He looked very much like a suburban husband, bland and nondescript, which he probably was. She held out her hand.

“Marcie Noel.”

He shook. “Steve Turner.”

“Sit down, Mr. Turner.”

He sat, but looked uncomfortable. Marcie smiled again, trying to set him at ease. “Do you want some coffee, Mr. Turner?”

“No. No thank you.”

Marcie waited. “Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Turner?”

He sat for a moment, considering. “I need to get into a computer.”

Marcie looked at him levelly. “I don’t do that anymore, Mr. Turner.” Her ‘phone beeped. She was annoyed with him – everyone in safeinmyarms knew that she was no longer hacking. Why is he wasting my time? She decided to take the call. “Excuse me.” She turned away and tapped her neck. “Marcie Noel.”

“Ms. Noel, my name is Steven Turner.” What? Marcie schooled her expression and took a moment to breath. “Are you there?”

“Absolutely. No, I’ll go higher than that.”

“What?”

“I heard you. What else?”

“I wanted to warn you that someone is running around pretending to be me and he’s asking a lot of questions about you.”

“I understand completely.”

“No! You don’t.”

“Yes I do. Okay? Let me know if there are any more offers.”

“He’s with you now, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes.”

“All right. There’s no reason to believe me, right? We’ve never talked on the phone. Just get him to confirm this week’s password to safeinmyarms. He couldn’t’ve stolen it from me. It’s only in my head.”

“Right. Okay, call me later.”

“Talk atcha.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

Marcie looked back at the man on the stool beside her. Suddenly, he looked a little more threatening than he had before. How does some schmuck from the suburbs crack ‘safeinmyarms’, find out about Turner, and get to me? What could a guy like that really want? She was intrigued. She savoured the feeling. Who is this guy?

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m a businesswoman and I want to stay in business. I can’t screw up. There are thousands of good hackers out there with no reputation and nothing to lose. Go find one.” She dropped a few dollars on the counter in front of her and slid smoothly off her stool.
“I have a lot of money.”

“You couldn’t pay me enough. Besides, I’m still not sure you are who you say you are.”

“Ask me anything.”

“How do I know you?”

“Through a hacker chat room currently called safeinmyarms.”

“Fine. Tell me the password to ‘safe’.”

“8Xcr1502mlK5.”

Very old password. Almost three days. She had to fake it. She smiled as if a little relieved. “I hate face-to-faces, don’t you.”

“Yeah.”

“Look. You know me. I don’t do this anymore. You have to know that I wouldn’t risk everything. And besides, it’s likely if you can’t hack it, I won’t be able to get in either. Find someone else.” She knew she sounded sincere. She was proud of that little performance. She almost believed it herself.

“I’m sorry. You have to come with me. You have to help me.”

Marcie looked down at the gun he was suddenly pointing at her. She ran everything through her head as quickly as she could. This man is not Steve Turner. If this man were a policeman of some sort, what he had just attempted was called entrapment, which is plain stupid. If this man were a criminal of some sort, he just introduced a weapon in plain sight in a bar that’s completely wired, which is extremely risky and plain stupid. Therefore, this guy is stupid or desperate or an amateur or all three, which means he’s a most unpredictable and dangerous animal. She didn’t want to call for the cops, they tended to be no help and then charge the PI with public mischief. The Toronto cops were not supportive of the city’s burgeoning PI force. They thought PIs were a nuisance; the less there were the better.

Besides, Marcie was intrigued. She wanted to know what was going on. Why was this obviously average guy so desperate? There was a good way to find out without anybody getting hurt: call in the cavalry. She dropped her right arm casually and tapped her outer thigh at arm’s length three times. Tap, tap, tap. Her emergency call procedure. There was a small device installed in her outer thigh that instructed her ‘phone to speed dial one number. Most people who had this feature installed usually called 911.

This guy was so stupid. He didn’t pick up on it. ‘Steve’ gestured toward the front door. “Please. I’m serious.” Actually, he looked a little insane. Marcie complied.

She wasn’t calling 911. She was calling Robbie McLean, a good, long-time friend, and an occasional employee. Robbie didn’t ask questions, accepted any reasonable payment, and was a pro. He was also a very large man who could subdue anyone. He was so good, she considered him her insurance policy. The call went through.

“Yeah,” answered Robbie. Good.

“Where are you taking me?” Marcie spoke in a clear voice.

“Can’t tell you that.” Because you probably don’t know, you idiot.

“Hello, sugar. In trouble again, are we?” said Robbie. “Don’t you worry your pretty, little head. I’m tracing.”

Great. He was home, only a few blocks away. She could hear him tapping away in the background.

“What mess have you got yourself into now, sugar?”

“Well, who are you then? You should at least tell me that. I know you’re not Steve Turner.”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“He can’t tell you anything.” Robbie sounded calm, almost relaxed. “Oh, I gotcha. On my way. I’ll only be a few minutes. I want to transfer the homing signal to my palm.” Robbie had a small computer installed in his right hand that worked for limited tasks like homing signals. It cost him a lot of money. It was flexible, didn’t affect the function of the hand and looked like real skin, until the display came on. Then, it was a bit creepy looking. “O-o-o-kay. Got it. See you soon, sugar.”

She heard the connection die and suddenly felt very alone. ‘Steve’ was practically shoving her across the room in his haste to get to his PA. She moved as slowly as she thought she could get away with. She hated hand-to-hand combat despite almost fifteen years of karate. Her mother had been very clear that a woman should be able to defend herself, while all the while telling her daughter that the best fight was the one you ran away from. Marcie could almost certainly take him, but he was so agitated he might fire that weapon by mistake and hurt someone; like her, which wouldn’t do at all.

They got to the stairs and Marcie started walking up slowly.

“Hurry up! Goddammit!”

He grabbed her arm and pushed her forward. Great. Control freak.   They got to the roof and he practically carried her over to a PA that reminded her of its owner: bourgeois, suburban, and nondescript. He opened the pilot’s door and shoved her in ahead of him, never letting go of her. She had to admire his single-mindedness.

She bruised her knee and scraped the other ankle as she tried to climb into the front passenger seat. PAs weren’t built for acrobatics. He sat down and shut his door. Normal start-ups took a few minutes. She toyed with a single well placed punch to the head, but decided to wait. Robbie would be along.

‘Steve’ inserted his keycard and punched the engine into life. He pressed a series of keys that started the pre-check sequence. He looked agitated, hurried. He was making mistakes, swearing. Finally, he successfully initiated the start-up. Then, he remembered to point the gun at Marcie. She almost laughed. The vehicle ran through its safety checks and beeped. ‘Steve’ programmed his destination and waited for the vehicle to beep clearance from Flight Control. Marcie shook her head. This whole thing could be traced. He didn’t even have the sense to do an uncontrolled jump.

Suddenly, the pilot’s door opened without warning. A big hand reached in and yanked him out of the vehicle and down to the ground. ‘Steve’s’ gun clattered harmlessly on the tarmac. Marcie leaned over and hit the “KILL” switch. The PA powered down and was silent.   She grabbed the keycard, jumped down out of the passenger side, and walked around the vehicle. Robbie had ‘Steve’ up against the side of the PA, arm locked behind his back, face pressed hard against the driver’s side window. Serves him right.

“What do you want to do with him?”

Marcie looked at ‘Steve’. She was definitely annoyed, but something about his desperation intrigued her. She honestly couldn’t remember being this interested about anything in a long time.

“I think I deserve to know what’s going on here. Can I offer you a cup of coffee, Robbie?”

“Oh yeah. That would be nice.”

“Uh huh. And how about you?”

She turned before “Steve” answered and ignored him when he called after her. She got into her own vehicle, sat down, sighed, and said: “Home.” She looked at the keycard. She checked her bumps and scratches. Nothing really bad. She sat back and waited for Control to give the okay.

Home was currently a loft on Queen West right in the middle of Toronto’s new boutique district. The area had just recently turned around and Marcie’s life had turned around with it. Sometimes, life was all about luck. Marcie had rented her office space just before the district became popular and when the new crowd came in, Marcie’s business became popular too. She started to attract a completely different type of clientele, the type with a lot of money to spend. She had become something of a darling to Toronto’s ‘in crowd’ and, within a couple of years, was following errant husbands and libidinous wives, confirming backgrounds of nannies and chauffeurs, and chasing down minor con men. She had enough work to have two assistants on staff, as well as Robbie from time to time, and she was interviewing for a third full-time researcher on Monday. Where would she put everybody?

The loft was two stories tall with the office located on the lower floor. There was a small reception area, complete with impressive desk – that usually stood empty. Tracy and Jeff, her two current researchers, played ‘receptionist’ from time to time when a particularly important client came in for a rare visit. Business was done primarily over the telephone or at the client’s location. The main office space had four large desks floated and facing centre; so that the staff could all converse easily if necessary. There was nothing to separate Marcie’s desk from anyone else’s. There was a storeroom, a small conference room (which was used for eating pizza and client conferences), and a bathroom. Up a metallic spiral staircase, and taking up only half the area of the office floor, was the loft space. Here were the Stacks, and Marcie’s personal space. The Stacks were four shelving units of reference materials, old-fashioned fiche records, old-fashioned CDs, and the latest in MCs (memory cards) with gigabytes of reference material (addresses from all over the world, telephone directories, etc.). Marcie loved memory cards. You could walk around with a whole library full of information and not break a sweat. There was only one computer up in the Stacks, and that was Jeff’s baby. No one else was allowed to go near it, not even Marcie.

Marcie’s personal space was a galley kitchen, with a small table and two chairs; a living room with one loveseat, a coffee table, and a television – not even a holovision – a bathroom and her bedroom. She’d had a designer come in a do it all for her and, though it was striking; in the end, the effect was a little cold. Another great reason to move.

Now, if she hired one more person, all the desks on the main floor were taken. What happened if the advertising actually worked and she needed to hire two or three people? She’d have to boot Jeff up to the Stacks, which might seem like a loss in status for him (even though he loved it up there). She didn’t want to lose Jeff over something like that. He was a crack researcher. She certainly didn’t want to move office locations. So it was time to split home and office. Well, mostly. She lived her work; so she knew that at home, the most used room in the house would be her office.

She landed on the roof of the six-story building she called home. In the early twentieth century, this building was a factory, but over recent decades many of the old sweatshops in the area had been renovated for lofts and most of the inhabitants used to be artsie-types seeking natural light – the windows were floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall. Marcie liked living with artsies because they generally couldn’t afford PAs; so there were always a lot of parking spots on the roof. As a bonus, artsies were generally quiet, and they were nice to you in the elevator. But now that the rents had gone up beyond belief, most residents were artsie-wannabes with tons of money that they spent putting up expensive window treatments, throwing loud parties, and buying PAs. And now there was always a fight for parking spots on the roof. To make matters worse, none of these trendy-types said hello in the elevator. This always worried Marcie. If you were capable of ignoring a living breathing person standing right next to you in a box that was about as interesting as white bread, what else were you capable of ignoring? A lot, Marcie was sure.

Eventually, Marcie found a parking spot. She was going to have to insist that the building management allot the spaces on the roof evenly to the leaseholders. She needed to be able to put her PA down somewhere and she hated leaving it on the street. She parked the PA and got out of the vehicle. Robbie and ‘Steve’ were already waiting at the roof door. Marcie walked over to meet them and they all went down the stairs to the top floor. Robbie had ‘Steve’s’ arm firmly behind his back, and he did it so effortlessly that three people they met coming up noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Or perhaps they were just being ignored.

Marcie’s Loft was on the second floor. They took the elevator down and, luckily, no one got on with them.   They exited into a deserted hallway and walked down to Marcie’s door at the end of the corridor. It wasn’t locked.

“Hi,” she called as she went inside. Two responses came back. Both Tracy and Jeff were working this Saturday morning. Marcie gave bonuses for volume and her assistants were often at work on the weekend, but they’d been getting behind lately, even with all the extra hours being worked.

“Where would you like the package, ma’am?” Robbie enjoyed his job a little too much.

“Please sit him over by my desk, Robbie, and make sure he doesn’t run off. Can you stick around for a while?”

“Sure, sugar.”

‘Steve’ had lapsed into a docile funk – he must have realized Robbie’s strength. He hadn’t said a word since they arrived, and he hadn’t attempted to escape either. Marcie was very curious about who this man was and why he had decided to pick on her. Robbie walked him over and sat him down at one of the visitor’s chairs at Marcie’s desk.

“Stay there,” he said. ‘Steve’ looked very much like he would be happy to comply.

“Hi Marce; hi Robbie. Who’s that, then?” asked Tracy. Tracy was an expat Brit who really sounded it when she was surprised.

Marcie was walking upstairs to pour herself and Robbie a cup of coffee. “Meet ‘Steve’.” Her tone of voice verged on the scornful but, dammit, her knee hurt.

“Steve?”

“Yes, he says his name is ‘Steve Turner’, but I happen to know he’s not. Jeff, I’ve got an A-priority job for you.”

Jeff popped his head over the rail from the upstairs. He was in the Stacks.

“How is that different from all the other A-priority jobs I’ve got?”

“It’s not for a client; it’s for me.”

“Gotcha.”

Marcie went on to assign him the task of checking out the chat room to determine who visited it, their backgrounds, etc. She took her coffee back downstairs.

“This could take months!”

“It’s a seriously restricted chat room, Jeff. There are only five of us with unlimited access and there can’t be many more than that who shadow. See what you can do. If it becomes too huge a task, let me know.”

“What is the objective?”

“I want to know who ‘Steve’ really is. I’m not sure how forthcoming he’ll be.”

“Gotcha.”

“Oh yeah, and Jeff? I have another little job. I want to know who a David Welsh is. I got a rude call from him this morning. He may or may not be from Toronto, but my guess is he’s a reporter or PI. Not priority.”

“Sure.”

All this was said in front of ‘Steve’ while she stared directly at him. She wanted to let him know that she wasn’t without resources. He couldn’t hold her gaze for long. Hmmm, feeling a bit ashamed of yourself? Great.

Marcie decided to let him stew for a moment, while she sent encrypted emails to the other four registered members of safeinmyarms. She knew that they’d be able to crack the message in minutes; so she didn’t reference any key for the encryption. The email detailed that the chat room had been somehow compromised, that she’d been attacked, and appealed for help in determining who ‘Steve’ was and what his motives might be. The security measures were strong, but no one was safe from a hacker who was motivated enough. She knew that first-hand.

“Well. ‘Steve’. Perhaps you’d tell me what your real name is?”

“Greg Pearce.”

That was easy.

From above, she heard Jeff’s voice: “I’ve got it! I think his name is Greg Pearce.”

“Very funny.”

She looked at Greg, trying not to laugh. Jeff’s humour was well placed. She didn’t feel like playing the shady, underworld figure today. She just wanted answers. The joke took the edge off. “All right, Greg Pearce: How did you get my name? Why me?”

“I hired a kid to do a job for me. He couldn’t complete it; so he told me about you and the chat room. He gave me the password and I shadowed for a few days. Then, I just looked you up on the telephone book. I’m sorry about what I did.”

“About what you attempted to do. Do you know that the Eight Ball has you marching me out of there at gun point in full colour and from at least three angles?” She had never known Hugh to call the police, but he always had a great record of any incident in his bar. The police were always given the one cam standard security record. But his own three-colour, three-angle version? He’d been known to sell the memory cards to both the prosecution and the defence. It was a good sideline for him.

“They’re monitored?”

Marcie suppressed the impulse to say: Duh! “They’re totally wired, every table and most of the gallery. Which reminds me. Tracy, call Hugh Pale at the Eight Ball and get a copy of his security memory cards from this morning, from ten to eleven, please. Oh, and don’t let him overcharge you.”

“Sure.” Marcie knew Robbie would sit down, drink his coffee, and wait until she told him she was done. Then, he’d do whatever she wanted with Pearce. Now that was power. Marcie was secretly enjoying this. She didn’t get into the business so she could do background checks on au pairs. She really craved a bit more adventure in her life.

“Why don’t you try telling me what you really want, Mr. Pearce?”

“I really am looking for my wife.”

“Okay.”

“She disappeared about a month ago. I took her to McMaster University Medical Centre in Hamilton for some tests. I took her through Admitting and sat with her until the doctors came, and I had to leave. But the next day, when I went to pick her up, she wasn’t there. No one knew anything. They said she’d been released the night before. And then I couldn’t get in touch with her gynaecologist either.”

“Wait a minute. Helen Pearce? From the news?” Tracy was still hanging over the balcony listening.

“Yeah. The police think my wife ran off with the doctor, but then he turned up, a few days ago, back in his own office, dead on an examination table. He’d been shot in the head. And he’d been dead for some time, the coroner says about four weeks.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Tracy loved this sort of thing. She looked at Marcie. “They were just about to drop the case – no body, right?”

“Right. But, because they found him dead, they checked the doctor’s records and his bank accounts have been cleaned out. So, now my wife is a suspect. They think she’s on the run with all his money.”

“I heard it on the news too. They’re looking for her all over the country. What, they think she took about twenty million dollars?”

“Yeah.”

Marcie looked at Pearce: “And you’re going to try and tell me that she’d never do such a thing, that you were in love and that you want to prove her innocence.”

“Yes.”

“Right. Okay. But what computer did you want me to crack?”

“I wanted to get into the records at the hospital to see if she was even admitted. They won’t tell me anything. No one will tell me anything!” He paused and studied Marcie for a moment. “You have that look on your face, Ms. Noel. You think she killed him. Everybody does. No one will help me!” He tried to calm himself. “She wouldn’t hurt anyone for money. Look, we’ve been together for ten years, Ms. Noel. Why, all of a sudden, would she change so completely?”

“Because the opportunity presented itself, I expect.”

“Okay, okay. Just, let’s say. Let’s pretend. Let’s just say she isn’t involved in killing her gynaecologist for his money. What if she’s still my Helen?”

“Okay.” Marcie was willing to see where he was going.

“Well, where is she? If she’s still my Helen, why hasn’t she called, why hasn’t she come home?”

“That’s a good question. The easy answer to that question is that she’s not ‘your Helen’. That she is, in fact, guilty.”

Pearce became more agitated: “I don’t believe it. Something else is going on here. Someone’s abducted her! For God’s-sake, she wouldn’t use a gun. She hates guns.” He tried to steady himself again. “Look, I think someone might be able to pull the wool over your eyes for a period of time, maybe as long as a few years. But I don’t think you can live with someone for ten years and not know something about who they really are, the good and the bad. And I don’t believe that she’s anything other than an integrally good person.”

Marcie let that sit for a while. He was probably right. She’d have to be a brilliant actor, and purely evil, to be able to fake it for that long; especially with a spouse that saw her day in and day out for ten years. In Marcie’s experience with married couples, she had found that when one is bad, the other is too.

“Greg, why didn’t you hire some kid to crack the hospital system?”

“I did. I hired three of them. None of them could do it and they all said the same thing. The last guy got the closest, but he said that the level of encryption was much higher than he’d ever seen. He got into the system easily, but when he tried to look at my wife’s records, he was stumped. Her file, and about twenty others, were so well encrypted, he didn’t think they would ever be cracked. I asked him who he thought could crack it. That’s when he told me about you. He gave me the impression that you liked a challenge. I thought you’d take the job.”

“You thought wrong. Why the phoney name?”

“I thought that you’d help someone from that chat room. It’s nuts, I know. I guess I am a bit nuts right now. No one will help me. Not the police. Not reporters. Not the four private detectives I’ve already seen. No one. I’m sorry about trying to coerce you.

“You’ve been watching too many movies. You say that most of the patient records were relatively easy to get into, but there were a small group, including your wife’s, that couldn’t be cracked. Could you see the names of all of these patients?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s a place to start. Let’s see if any of those people have disappeared as well. That would give the police a different perspective. They might start taking you seriously.”

“Can you do that for me?”

“Bring me the names. I’ll do what I can. Oh, and Greg, this’ll be at standard rates, including today – uh with a nice fat bonus for my bruised knee.”

“Charge me whatever you like. I’m glad someone is willing to help me.”

“Fine, we’ll start in on it Monday. Tracy!”

“Right here.” She was standing at Marcie’s right shoulder. Spooky how she knows when I need her.
“Get Mr. Pearce a standard investigative contract and go over it with him.”

“Mr. Pearce, I’ll need you to authorize the contract and give us a deposit.” Tracy smiled at Pearce and gestured toward her desk.

“Fine.” Pearce followed Tracy. He looked like he couldn’t believe his luck; someone was actually taking the case. Maybe I’m the one who’s nuts.

“When he’s done, Robbie, take him back to his car, please. Here’s his keycard. Oh and Robbie, what are you up to for the next few weeks?”

“I am, as always, ready to help you, sugar.”

Marcie nodded. She was glad. She had a feeling she was going to need him.

Sunday, June 20, 2083 7:30 p.m.

A baby started to wail somewhere in the building and Norman Li almost jumped out of his skin. It was true what they said about a guilty conscience. Norman had always thought that that psycho-bullshit wasn’t worth the expenditure of hot air, but not now. Now, he understood it all much better.

Norman always used to sleep well, because he had never had anything on his mind. He’d always done the right thing, played the game straight, paid his taxes. He did not expect to have to make the kind of decisions he was making now, this late in the game. Norman was fifty-two. He was the Security Executive at a government run research facility called The Eastdown Institute. He had been with the Institute for the ten years it had been open and he’d always been proud of his work. He knew what he was doing for humankind.

But, just lately, they’d started testing little children. He had lain awake all Saturday night and Sunday morning and finally rose, determined to do what he could. He hadn’t been able to get away for most of the day, but just after dinner, he had leaped on his wife’s complaint that she had a book she wanted to return to the library.

He read the email on the computer screen in front of him. It would be very difficult to trace. He’d even paid for the computer time in cash. About seven thousand words: dates, diagrams, details. They would know and maybe they would get the government to stop what was happening. If this didn’t work, he was going to go to the papers himself. His little girl was almost finished college now and her education was all paid for. His family didn’t need him to avoid risks the way he used to.

He pressed ‘send’.

He deleted the free email account he had used. He logged off the internet connection and then edited the connect logs of the public library computer to clear the record of the connection with the free email website. He powered down the machine, removed the memory card and slipped it into his pocket. He walked out of the library as nonchalantly as possible.

Once out on the street, the fresh air and the bright day did not impinge on his consciousness. He turned away from the street at the first alleyway he came to and walked down to the end away from prying eyes. He pulled out the memory card and a cigarette lighter. He lit the memory card on fire. The plastic twisted and melted immediately, sending off an acrid odour. It quickly became too hot to hold and he dropped it on the pavement. He stepped on the destroyed card and ground it into the asphalt below. He waited a moment for it to cool. Then, he picked up the ruined thing and slipped it back into his pocket. He was sure that no one had seen what he did.

He walked back out to the sidewalk and strolled down the street as if he hadn’t a care in the world. About three blocks down, he walked into a convenience store and bought himself a chocolate bar. He pulled off the outer wrapper and slipped it into his pocket as he continued on down the street. Another block later, the chocolate bar was finished. He stopped at a garbage can and threw the wrapper away. With it went the remains of the memory card.

Evidence thus destroyed, Norman Li went home and telephoned his insurance broker, who happened also to be a good friend. He scheduled a game of golf for Thursday afternoon, his afternoon off. He wanted to make sure that his insurance was up-to-date. It was the least he could do for Marion.

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Acknowledgements

2012-02-21T07:56:00.000-08:00

To Rennie, my friend. Save me a seat on the other side, honey. I’ll be along.

Thanks to Fuzzy, James, and Eve.

A very special thanks to my family. John for his ongoing support and Brenda for her ongoing inspiration.