Psion Alpha (11 page)

Byron
LIED to me!

He
didn’t lie. He omitted information.

He
had hundreds of opportunities to tell me the truth.

The
sickness he’d experienced during his conversation with Thomas returned, only
now much sharper. Sammy grabbed his stomach and bent over. Saliva filled his
mouth, and scurried to the sink, making it just in time as his gut emptied
itself. The scent of his puke combined with the stench of the dirty dishes and
stale coffee was terrible. When his stomach had settled, Sammy turned on the
water and waited for it to heat. He hoped washing the dishes would take his
mind off Commander Byron and the chin-wagging going on among the members of the
resistance.

While
the sink filled, he hunted down the remaining dishes hiding around the room.
Scrubbing mugs and plates distracted him for a few minutes, but the anger was
always there, right below the surface. It grew until he was scouring the dishes
so furiously that he broke the handle of a mug and cut his hand. When the pain
of the slice hit, accompanied by a sudden pinkish color in the soap foam, Sammy
swore as loud as he could and blasted the water. The waves shot out of the sink
and drenched his shirt. This made him swear again.

The
water in the sink was almost gone. Most of it had soaked into his clothing, the
rest covered the countertop, wall, and floor. He looked around for a towel or
mop, but found only dishcloths. Bitter about this too, he snatched several of
them from a drawer and began mopping up the water. He hadn’t cleaned much when
he
saw
.

His
hand shot up to his eyes, covering them. Data flooded his brain, which he immediately
started separating into components and compartments. His lips moved as he spoke
silently to himself. Without consciously thinking about it, he got off the
floor and tore maps from the walls, spreading them out across the large
conference table so he could see them. He stared at them silently for several
minutes, hardly even blinking.

“Dark
out has to be three hundred kilometer radius … ” he finally told himself.
“Fifty kilometer infrared and heat radius. Southwest finger is at least that
long. Two Psions and an Ultra … that would work. But we’d need an Ultra. Where
would we get an Ultra?”

He
dashed back to the sink and filled it up, tapping his foot impatiently as he
did so. Once it finished, he submerged both his hands. His pulse pounded from
the excitement. “Three … two … one … BLAST!” Again the water shot out of the
sink, drenching him and bathing the surrounding area in water. He replenished
it a third time with the same eagerness. This time, he barely put his hands
under the water, keeping them as far from the bottom as possible.

“Blast!”

The
water exploded outward, making Sammy as giddy as he’d been during his first
training sims, when he learned to blast.
If only they had a pool or a lake.
He tried to remember if they’d flown over any lakes on their way to Glasgow
from Orlando, but it had been too dark to see much at all. He made a note to
ask Thomas before the meeting started.

“S’cuse
me … ” a voice behind Sammy asked.

Sammy
spun to see who had snuck up on him. It was Aaron Lewis, a member of the
leadership committee, chosen for his extensive survival skills and
outdoorsmanship. He stared at the disaster Sammy had created, not only all
around the sink, but also on the maps. Many of them sported wet, red handprints
from where Sammy grabbed them with his still-bleeding hand. Sammy glanced at
the clock and saw that he had less than twenty minutes before the meeting
started.

“What—uh—what’re
you doin’?” Aaron asked.

Sammy
raised his dripping hands and showed him that they were empty. “Splashing.”

Aaron’s
eyes narrowed and took a step backward, as though he suddenly remembered Sammy
was the guy who suffered from Anomaly Thirteen. “You okay? Feelin’ all right?”

“Fine.
Why?”

Aaron’s
gaze flickered to the floor, then back to Sammy. His reddish brown beard
quivered ever so slightly. “Uh … no reason. I’m goin’ to leave now and … go …
get … Thomas.” He slunk out the door. Through the window, Sammy could see him
sprinting to his car, a feat for anyone wearing jeans, a thick flannel shirt,
and heavy hiking boots. After Aaron disappeared, Sammy set about cleaning the
room and restoring the maps to the walls they had previously occupied. By the
time the meeting began, the room looked better than ever.

The
leadership committee comprised of almost three dozen people. One of the Byrons
led each session without fail. Sammy was the youngest person on the committee
by at least ten years. The oldest was an ancient man named Stefan Mayors who
always brought his battered copy of
Robert’s Rules of Order
. He enforced
the rules upon the committee with a vehemence that defied his age. While Stefan
was one of the first to arrive, Thomas and Lara were among the last, already
looking harried and worn. Thomas made it a point to shake Sammy’s hand before
getting seated. As they shook, he slipped Sammy a note.

Are
you okay with addressing the rumors? I think it would be best if you did.

Sammy
caught Thomas’ eye and nodded his head. The moment the clock struck 1000,
Mayors called the group to order by banging his book on the table several
times. The room fell silent and all eyes fell on Lara, whose turn it was to
conduct the meeting.

“It
appears we have a quorum present,” Lara began in typical fashion. “Does anyone
object?” She glanced around the room and moved on. Then she projected a
holo-image of the last meeting’s minutes into the air. “These are the items
which we covered during the last meeting. If everyone is satisfied, may I have
a motion to accept them?”

Someone
on the other side of the room stood. “I motion to accept these as the accurate
minutes of the last meeting.”

“Seconded,”
came another voice.

“All
in favor?” Lara said.

The
vote was unanimous.

“Thank
you. To begin today’s meeting, Thomas and I think it wise to allow Sammy an
opportunity to explain the rumors circulating about him this morning. Mutual
trust is vital for us to function and thrive. After he speaks, we will allow
questions.” She turned to Sammy and gave him a matronly smile. “The floor is
yours.”

Sammy
realized what a mess he must look like with his t-shirt soaked in the front. “Sorry
about being so wet. I was tidying up in here and the water.… Anyway, I guess
last night someone overheard me and a friend speaking. Word got around fast
that I—I have, well, you all already know that I have a couple different
anomalies. I knew that, too. What I didn’t know until recently is that I also
have Anomaly Thirteen.”

Judging
by the sudden chatter among several different members of the committee, this
was still news to more than a few people. However, old Stefan Mayors was on top
of it all, banging his book and calling everyone to order. “Respect the rules
of order, people!”

Sammy
looked around the table, but couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes, so instead he gazed
at their necks or foreheads. “I—I didn’t try to hide this. I thought no one
needed to know since, as far as I can tell, I haven’t acted in the manner of—of
one of them. I mean, I’m still me. Nothing’s changed. I still want to be here
and want to help. If you’ll have me, that is. Er, well—thank you.”

He
sat down at once and kept his eyes on his hands clasped in front of him.

“All
righty,” Thomas said. “Anyone want to discuss this or can we get on with our
lives? Because frankly, the uproar this has caused is disgust—”

“Yes,
I would like to speak,” Wesley Gibbons said, “if I may.”

“You
may have the floor,” Lara said with a sigh.

Gibbons
stood abruptly and pointed his finger into the air. He wore an expensive
French-cut shirt with gold cufflinks and tailored slacks, which matched his
well-styled hair and haughty manner. According to Thomas, Wesley Gibbons
possessed impeccable business skills and helped run the resistance’s finances
with astounding ability. “That man can stretch a dollar like it’s made out of
the world’s best taffy,” Thomas once told Sammy. “Plus, he’s loyal to me.”

“I
don’t mean any disrespect,” Gibbons began in a sharp, Northwestern accent, “but
Sammy has the very same anomaly we’re struggling against. Am I right?” He did
not pause to see if anyone wished to confirm his assertion. “I think this
merits a certain amount of precaution, don’t all of you? Let’s open up a
discussion of ideas as to what types of precautions need to be taken.” He sat
down in the same manner in which he’d stood.

Silence
reigned in the room. Sammy caught at least ten people watching him, but they all
looked away as soon as he met their gaze. Once a full minute had gone by with
no one speaking, Lara drummed her fingers on the table. “Well then, let’s move
on. Our next order of business is for each of the subcommittees to report on
their progress from yesterday and to set goals for what they wish to accomplish
today. Let’s begin with—”

Sammy
raised his hand.

“Yes,
Sammy?”

“Permission
to take the floor, please?”

“Go
ahead.”

He
stood a second time. “This morning, when I was going through our maps and data,
I had a sort of epiphany. I guess you could say I saw the whole picture—the whole
mission—from beginning to end. In this case, I think I’ve solved the problems
to our primary objectives and I’d like to present them to the committee. That
is, if I may.” He looked to Thomas and Lara, who motioned for him to continue.

“Wait
a second,” Gibbons said, standing again. “Point of privilege, since I just
spoke—”

Aaron
Lewis, still in his flannels and boots, stood, too. “Let the boy speak, Wesley.
We heard what you had to say.”

“Agreed,”
Krystal Berry said, nodding to Aaron.

“If
you heard what I have to say, then why are we letting Sammy have the floor? He
has the same disease as the enemy! We don’t even know if he can be trusted.”

“Have
a seat!” Stefan Mayors cried, ready to throw down his book if need be. “You are
all out of order. Do I need to revoke your speaking privileges? It won’t be the
first time I’ve banned someone for improper decorum.”

Gibbons
turned away from Stefan, Krystal, and Aaron to address the rest of the
committee. “How can this be coincidence? The same day we learn about his
Anomaly Thirteen, Sammy ‘discovers’ all the answers to our problems—the
problems we’ve been debating in committees for over a month! Can we trust this
young man?”

The
words punched Sammy in the chest.

“You
haven’t even let him speak, Wes,” Aaron reminded him.

“I
don’t need to let him speak! I don’t trust him!”

“The
rules, Wesley,” Stefan croaked, “You do not have permission to speak!”

“Shove
your rules, Stefan! You’re an old man with a book.”

A
massive man with a large white beard jumped to his feet and slapped his palm on
the table. “You’re out of line, Wesley.”

Stefan
started beating on the table like it was a drum. His face screwed up with fury,
and red as ketchup. “ORDER!”

But
Gibbons wasn’t ready to come to order. Neither was Aaron. Someone else stood
and asked everyone to let Gibbons speak his mind. Then a fifth person reminded
the committee that Sammy had the floor, not Gibbons. Sammy, however, had
already sat down and buried his face in his arms, hating how everyone knew his
secret—hating the anomaly inside him causing all these problems. The whole
committee was on the verge of collapse, and it was his fault.

Then
the door to the meeting room opened. A pale man walked in, scanning the faces
of committee members. Sammy vaguely recognized him as a guy who worked in the
communications division. His eyes darted around the room until he saw Thomas
and Lara. He hurried over to them and whispered in their ears. Thomas and Lara hopped
to their feet as soon as he finished.

“Our
meeting will have to adjourn for the day,” Thomas announced. “I’ve just
received word that my son and several other NWG operatives have landed in
Glasgow. Some of them are in critical condition.”

CHAPTER
SIX
– Viper

Friday, October 11, 2086

THE
Queen
sat in front of the vanity in her master bathroom admiring her reflection as
she expertly applied a few dashes of makeup to enrich her already incomparable
beauty. Adorning her stunning figure was a simple but elegant blue blouse and a
pair of black pants. The outfit brought out the depths of her dark brown eyes
and hair and made her creamy skin shimmer. She leaned in and inspected herself
once more. She spotted not a single flaw. Her looks defied her age by over
twenty years.

But
a flaw existed, always with her. Inside her. Tracking her. Making her a ticking
bomb.

The
solution.

Her
com rang. Other than the fox, no one had called her for over a month. The time to
herself had been well-spent. She crossed into the bedroom and picked up the com
from where it lay on her dresser.

“Hello?”

“Hello,”
a young man answered, “I’m calling for Kellie Plummer. May I speak—”

“This
is she. Who is this?”

“Carlos.
At Poochie Pets. You asked us to hold the miniature Labrador for—”

“I
did. Have you done that?”

“Yes,
ma’am. She’s here. We close in three hours. Will you pick it up tonight? We
can’t hold her any—”

“I’ll
be there.” The Queen hung up and returned to her vanity, putting the last
touches on her lipstick. Satisfied that she was, without any doubt, the most
beautiful woman on earth, she grabbed her purse and left the room. Then she
took her car down to the air rail station and bought a ticket to Seattle. People
gawked at her as she took her seat on the rail. She ignored them all. One man seemed
to consider sitting by her, but thought better of it. This made her beam inside
with the brightness of a dozen suns.

The
air rail ride lasted less than an hour. She reviewed the plan in her mind. The
time to act was now, while the fox was preoccupied with the war against the
NWG. She might never get a chance again with him so fixated on one thing. His
brilliant mind was hard to fool, hard to slip anything past. Not impossible,
however.

About
forty days ago, she’d seen a side of him that she never knew existed.

She
had seen him doubt.

* * *
* *

That
night in Orlando, when she returned from the garage to the fox’s penthouse
suite, she found him staring out a broken window while his curtains whipped
about like giant tentacles. The fox rubbed his forehead in shock, messing up
his light brown hair. He didn’t notice her presence at first.

“Gone.”
That was all he said when he realized she was standing behind him.

The
Queen looked around the room and saw the chess pieces on the floor, the board missing.
Sammy, the window, the chessboard.

“He
escaped?” It wasn’t easy holding back her I-told-you-so tone, but she did.

“Yes.
He—he—he beat me. He beat me in chess. His medical records … said—they said he
hadn’t recovered the anomaly. I thought—I thought he would be receptive. He
wasn’t. He wouldn’t listen to me. He wouldn’t see reason, Katie.”

The
Queen couldn’t tell which bothered him more, the loss at chess or Sammy declining
his offer.

“Now
he’s gone. I thought he would
see
the way I do once I showed him, but he
didn’t. How can that be?” Again he rubbed his forehead as though the answers
were just below his skin, and if he massaged enough, they might pop out.

“He
is dangerous. Did he survive the fall?”

The
fox shook his head, which angered the Queen.
He was mine to kill. MINE!

“A
cruiser. The cruiser. It was waiting in the air for him. He coordinated it, I
think. Too focused on the chess match and on convincing him … I didn’t notice.”

This
news brought the Queen great relief. “Shall I leave you for the night? There
are two more dead Fourteens in the garage that need to be retrieved for
extraction.”

“Let
others do it,” the fox said. “I require your presence tonight—your company.
Send down the orders and join me.”

The
next day with the fox was business as usual. He never mentioned Sammy again.
The Queen expected to be sent out to find him, but the fox dismissed the idea
when she asked. “You will stay here for a few days and assist me.”

The
role of the fox’s assistant was not new to the Queen. Often when he had
meetings and conferences he required her presence not only to show off her
beauty, but also to do menial things for him while he worked. It happened
commonly enough over the years that she was intimately familiar with his
routines and procedures.

Look
up this, fetch that, check on something, call this person
, the
Queen found it demeaning for a woman of her talents.

The
fox spent hours on video calls with people in President Newberry’s inner circles.
He coordinated coverage of the war with his people working for major news
organizations. He met with the Joint Chiefs to review battle strategies, and
sat in holo-conferences with a few desperate governors over NWG territories.
Most of these meetings the Queen joined, ready to help when asked. After a week
of this, he dismissed her with the order to go home and get rest.

“But
be ready for me to call upon you at a moment’s notice,” he told her.

The
Queen had not rested. She had put her time both with and without the fox to excellent
use.

* * *
* *

As
the air rail to Seattle came to a stop, the Queen didn’t have to make any
effort to disembark first. People got out of her way as if it were the most
natural thing in the world. She had learned tricks from the fox after spending
so much time in his company. The fox, with the help of his Anomaly Eleven, had developed
specific mannerisms, gestures, and tones of voice that made people want to
trust and obey him. As he liked to say, he was a “people person’s person.” The
Queen had observed him closely and mimicked him, tweaking his techniques so
that her own feminine presence was noticed and respected. The tricks didn’t
always work, especially on those with a higher level of self-awareness but, by
and large, the masses fell under her spell and bent to her whims. She liked it
that way.

The
Queen set her sights on a nearby animal shop. Poochie Pets had been chosen
because it was along the way to another destination. The walk from the hub took
only ten minutes. She entered the shop and was immediately assaulted by the
overpowering scent of animals. Kitty litter, dog food, pet treats, chew toys.
It nauseated her.

The
two young men behind the checkout counter stopped what they were doing the
moment she stepped into the store. Their eyes followed her as she approached
the customer service desk. One of them had his mouth half open the entire time;
the other scratched absentmindedly at a zit on his jaw line while staring at
the Queen’s bosom.

“Kellie
Plummer. I’m here for a dog.”

Both
boys continued to watch her with all the animation of two druggies on
psychedelic hallucinogens.

“A
miniature Labrador. I believe I spoke to you, Carlos, a couple hours ago.”

Carlos,
the imbecile with the open mouth, blinked twice. “Yeah—yeah, the liniature mabrador.
Uh, can you get that Brian while I watch the—the desk?”

Brian
didn’t answer, but continued to stare at the Queen’s chest and pick at the
unpoppable pimple. Eventually Carlos got the idea and went to get the dog
himself. The Queen rested her arm on the counter and faced away from the desk.

“So,
um, are you a … dog … lover?” Brian asked. “I mean, is this your first dog?
Because I’d be happy to show you—give you some, um, pointers on caring for it
and stuff. Would you maybe wanna—”

“No.”

“Okay,
maybe I’ll just go see if Carlos needs my help.”

A
few minutes later, Carlos and Brian returned with a Labrador no larger than a
cat. The Queen inspected it to be sure it was clean, then purchased it along
with a leash and a collar. The dog leaned away from her during the inspection
and whined the moment she tried to lead it out the store. The Queen checked the
time on her com, saw that she was right on schedule, and dragged the dog out
the door.

She
had eight blocks to walk to reach her destination. The dog fought her at first,
but when the Queen bent down and hissed at it, the dog peed on itself, lowered
its head, and trotted complacently beside her. Their jaunt lasted under thirty
minutes. As they strolled deeper into downtown Seattle, the size of the
buildings increased steadily. Soon the tallest of the skyscrapers surrounded
them. One in particular caught the Queen’s eye. It reached high toward the
heavens; a large purple N adorned each side of it.

He
lives to the south of the building
, she reminded herself,
he’ll come out the west garage exit and turn left.

Still
a block south of the N building, the Queen decided her current location would
work as planned. Directly across the street stood a towering building owned by
a banking giant. She removed a small firearm from her purse and went into an
alleyway. She took careful aim and fired the silent weapon at the wall of the
banking tower across the road. A small circle no wider than a bottle cap stuck
into the marble facing of the building. Her com linked to the embedded
projectile and told her the implantation had been successful. She checked the
time again.

Five
minutes to go.

The
dog amused itself by sniffing her shoes and the trash in the alley. The Queen
ignored the animal and used a small pair of binoculars to spy on the same
garage exit she’d watched over a dozen times. The streets weren’t packed yet
with rush hour traffic, but they were busy enough that her full attention was
required.

A
brown sedan. Plate 283 MZM
. Her anticipation grew the longer she
waited. Four minutes passed. Then five. Then seven. She repeated the license
plate number to herself as she gripped the leash so tightly that it sliced into
her skin. Slowly she wrapped its length around her palm until the dog had no
choice but to sit next to her with its head cocked to one side, studying her.
283
MZM
.

A
brown car pulled out from the garage. She recognized it at once. In fact, she
hardly needed to check the plate, but she did anyway. It was her target.

She
had to time everything perfectly, exactly as she’d practiced. The light at the
intersection caught him. He stopped, the first in line to go as soon as it turned
green. He had a tendency to accelerate quickly. She anticipated this. The
moment the traffic signal began to change, she counted down.
Seven. Six.
Five. Four.

“Activate
flash!” she ordered her com.
Three.

Across
the street, from the small projectile embedded in the banking building’s outer
wall, a bright flash of light burst several times in rapid succession like a
strobe, distracting everyone but the Queen.
Two.
The man in the brown
car craned his neck to find the source of the phenomenon.

One.

The
Queen jerked her arm and threw the dog at the brown car with precise aim. The
dog hit the pavement right as the wheel of the sedan encountered the same
place, crushing the dog and causing the man to slam on his brakes. The Queen
dashed into the street wearing an expression of horror and grief.

“No!”
she screeched.

The
brown car came to a full stop moments after the second set of tires ran over
the dog. Tears came from the Queen’s eyes as she put her hands to her face,
stretching the skin taut. The man driving the vehicle jumped out and ran around
the car to see what damage he’d done, all the while shouting his apologies.

Clyde
Engelman was the man’s name. He stood over two meters tall but was thin and
gangly. His hair, probably combed back this morning, was now disheveled and
half of it hung over his face as he bent down to find the dog. The Queen pulled
the mangled corpse out from under the rear of the car and sobbed.