Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment (21 page)

The American relaxed. “You’re right. I’m okay.”

“That’s good. Next, I’m going to turn on the chair. You’ll feel a slight vibration.” Strauss reached around the back of the chair.

Victor stepped back. He recalled that Doc Finnegan had told him there was considerable risk in the procedure. Three had died already. Strauss threw the switch. There was a soft hum, and the bundle of fiber-optic wires filled with light.

None of it seemed to bother the American.

Strauss picked up a tablet from a shelf behind him. He made an entry, and the high-def video screen in front of Jake turned on. A real-time image of one of the two orbiting pyramids was centered on the screen. Stars sparkled in the background. Strauss handed the tablet to Victor.

“That’s our target, Jake,” Victor said, angling the tablet so the American could see the screen. He expanded his thumb and forefingers on the display, and the image zoomed in. The pyramid was ink black. It rotated slowly in an off-axis tumble. Its etched surfaces glimmered under the sun’s reflected light. He tapped the tablet to freeze the frame when the base of the pyramid was visible. Then he zoomed in farther and the perimeter images of violence-wielding
Homo sapiens
came into focus. “Does any of this look familiar?”

Jake’s mind was still foggy. The cool flow of the fluid dripping from his IV hadn’t helped to clear it. His thoughts wandered to his friends. He was happy that he would be seeing them as soon as they were finished here. Afterward, he could get back to Francesca and the children. He missed them. He might not remember their past together, but the emotional attachment was as strong as ever. It was nice to know they were safe.

“Does it look familiar?” Victor asked. The man seemed dedicated to helping him retrieve his memory. That was nice. Jake liked him. Everyone around him seemed nice as well.

He stared at the video monitor. The images etched in the pyramid’s surface had a photorealistic quality to them. He recalled the conversation he’d had with Timmy and his friends about the alien artifacts. They’d explained that he had been responsible for launching them into space six years ago. Now they’d returned. He narrowed his eyes and studied the glyphs in the hope they would trigger a recollection.

It was no use. He couldn’t remember a thing.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He shook his head and felt the tug of wires sprouting from the skullcap.

“That’s quite all right,” Victor said. “We’re going to fix your memory soon enough. First step is to make the link.”

“The link?”

Victor hesitated a moment before answering. He sighed. “Jake, the chair you’re sitting in was designed by the people who kept you alive all those years. Good people, with your interests at heart. It’s tuned to the unique wavelengths emitted from your brain. Its purpose is to allow you to communicate with the pyramids.”

Even though Timmy had told him pretty much the same thing, Jake struggled to grasp the concept. “Really?” Having a unique history with the pyramids was strange enough, he thought. But they were inanimate objects. How was he supposed to communicate with them? He shrugged. The only thing he knew for sure was that Victor was a friend.

He could trust him.

“That’s right,” Victor said. “You see, it was your last contact with one of the pyramids that gave you amnesia. We believe the link will restore it.”

Finally, Jake thought. “That would be great.”

The lies rolled easily from Victor’s lips. In actual fact, he couldn’t care less about restoring the man’s memories. Quite the opposite.
The true purpose for today’s session was simply to determine if a two-way link could be made. If not, the man would be killed and Victor’s team would continue to use the chair to transmit a one-way signal. But if so, Mr. Bronson would accompany the chair to the island—where his memories would be erased permanently and his brain used to provide an ongoing conduit with their benefactors above.

At Victor’s signal, Hans opened the satchel. He reached inside with both hands and removed the lead-lined case holding the mini.

Palais des Nations
Geneva, Switzerland

J
AKE’S FOCUS WAS
immediately drawn to the square metallic case. Something about it tickled a memory. It wasn’t a good one. Hans stepped forward, and Jake grew uneasy. He shifted in the chair.

“Keep that away from me.”

Victor held up a hand. Hans hesitated.

“What’s the problem, Jake?” Victor asked.

Jake glanced from the case to Victor and the doctor. They both seemed to be studying him intently. He appreciated their concern. “I—I’m not sure. Something doesn’t feel right.”

The two men in front of him exchanged a curious glance. After a moment Victor said, “It’s a key part of the process, Jake. Without it the chair won’t work.” He motioned Hans forward.

“No!” Jake pleaded. He struggled against the wrist and ankle restraints.

Hans held out the case, and Victor snapped open the four latches securing the top. “Don’t worry, Jake. Everything’s going to be just fine.” He lifted the lid.

Jake felt a surge of energy course into him from the box. It scared him. He panicked. His body tensed and his heart beat double-time. “Put it back!” he shouted. Warning bells rang
through his mind. He didn’t comprehend why, but every fiber of his being told him that death waited inside that box. Instinct took over. Adrenaline shot into his system, and his body went into fight-or-flight mode.

But he could do neither. The straps held him fast. Terror overwhelmed his senses.

Victor hesitated. The lid was only an inch above the box.

Strauss rushed forward and placed steadying hands on Jake’s forearms. Jake noticed a filled hypodermic syringe jutting from the folds of his lab-coat pocket. The sight of it fueled his dread.

“It’s okay, Mr. Bronson,” Strauss said. “The box can’t harm you.”

But Jake wouldn’t listen. He bucked at the restraints. He felt a bead of sweat dribble from his forehead.

Strauss moved closer to capture his gaze. But Jake twisted his head violently from side to side as if someone held a poisonous snake before him. Finally, the doctor turned to Victor and ordered, “For God’s sake, close it!”

The words seized Jake’s attention faster than an aircraft’s fire-warning light. He watched with stilled breath as Victor lowered the lid. It was in that brief instant of time that it dawned on him that he’d likened his reaction to something that only a pilot would understand. It had come naturally. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself in a cockpit. The memory rushed back:

He was on his first solo flight in the T-38 during USAF pilot training. A multiple-bird strike during takeoff had killed engine number two. The fire warning light illuminated. The aircraft was only one hundred feet above ground level. The plane sank, the stall warning buzzed, and his hands moved instinctively on the controls as he executed the memorized boldface commands: throttles—max; flaps—60 percent; airspeed—attain setos minimum. He recovered just before impact…

Victor secured the latches on the container. Jake’s eyes saw the action, but his brain latched onto the memory:

By the time he rolled to a stop after the emergency landing, the entire squadron was on the tarmac. Fire crews surrounded the blood-streaked plane. Cheers erupted as he stepped out of the cockpit. He saluted his commander, who said, “From the looks of your plane, Lieutenant, I think you must’ve nailed at least half a dozen of the bastards. It only takes five kills to make Ace. So congratulations!” The officer returned the salute with a wink. There were more cheers and gibes from his fellow airmen as they hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him to the tank—a recycled hot tub that had been donated to the squadron for the purpose of dunking students after their first solo flight. They threw him in. He’d never felt more proud.

Jake harbored the memory like a miser would his only coin.

It didn’t fade.

When he refocused on his surroundings, all eyes in the room bore into him. The metal container was back in the satchel. He breathed a sigh of relief. Its presence still disturbed him.

But he was no longer afraid.

Palais des Nations
Geneva, Switzerland

V
ICTOR HAD SEEN
it. The American had been petrified when the lid was removed. The abject terror on his face hadn’t been feigned. It seemed as if the man’s mind had snapped. At one point Victor had even worried that they’d lost him for good. But as soon as he resealed the box, Bronson’s fit had abated. And for a moment the man’s thoughts had appeared to be a million miles away. However, when his attention finally returned to the room, Victor had seen a flicker of defiance cross Jake’s features.

He didn’t like it.

He stood outside the door with Strauss and Hans.

“What happened in there?” he asked.

Strauss said, “I’ve never seen anything like it. Did he react that way when you showed him the mini at the castle?”

“No. He seemed invigorated by it. To say the least.”

“Then it had to be the drug.”

“But he’d been drugged at the castle as well. With the tea.”

“That’s like comparing nicotine to heroin. The narcoanalysis drug is eminently more powerful. Yes, it’s highly effective, but there can be serious drawbacks with some patients. Key among them is paranoia.”

“Can we lower the dose?”

“It wouldn’t help, especially after what just happened. The paranoia associated with the mini would outweigh the benefits of any hypnotic effects.”

“What if he’s blindfolded?”

“Normally, that might work. But not in this case, since he obviously senses something from the object. He’d know the instant it was no longer shielded.”

Victor nodded. The American was fast becoming more of a nuisance than he was worth. He checked his watch. Phase two of his plan would be initiated in less than thirty minutes. By then, they needed to be in the air. To Hans he said, “Gather the extraction team. I want the chair—and possibly Mr. Bronson—out of here as soon as we’re finished.”

“
Jawohl.
”

He turned back to Strauss. “How long after the IV is removed before the drug wears off?”