Next History: The Girl Who Hacked Tomorrow (8 page)

Tharcia eyes him warily but stays quiet. She’s had more than enough grim blindsides from Hannah’s sordid past.

Porterfield waves the sheets he holds. “Tharcia, cut to the chase here. There’s a very high certainty that… Well honey, this says I’m your father. Your real dad.”

This revelation confounds her utterly. Hugs the post, hides from his eyes. Wants to ask him to turn around so she can go in the house, doesn’t want to be uncool.

“Clay is my dad. Not you.” The certainty in her voice and quick flash of warmth for Clay alone. It cheers him, her first scrap of recognition in months.

Porterfield’s turn to be shocked, a silent echo as when Clay knocked him down. Hopes the girl did not witness. Quickly admits that Clay’s coloring and looks are right, but Clay cannot have proof.

“Surely you can’t be certain? Have you done a test? What makes you think that?”

Clay steps into Porterfield’s line of vision. His set face causes the taller man to step back. “Chester, you are intruding. I don’t care what test you did, Tharcia is with me. A year now. We know where we stand.”

“What test?” Her voice is hard.
Steps from behind the post, eyes intent. In the sunlight Porterfield sees her curved outline through white fabric. “
What test
,” she demands.

“We did a DNA test
, Sugar. You have two half-sisters who want to meet you,” Porterfield smiles. Steps closer, holds the papers out to her, gets a flash of white at the join of soft thighs. Lets her take the report, studies her as she flips through, reading quickly. Fine white hairs on her slim legs.

She gasps. “What the hell? My hairbrush?” She turns the page around, both men can see. Two photos. A hairbrush in a clear baggie, a wadded pink cloth in a baggie. Photo captions: Source A, subject hairbrush, Source B, subject underwear.

Porterfield gets an apologetic look. “Sorry, Tharcia. We had to…”

“You had to steal my hairbrush? Lame, dude.”

“Are those, um, things yours?”

“Dude, do you know how many of my GFs slept over? The thong isn’t mine. Could be anyone’s. Anybody could have used that brush. No fat
her of mine would stoop this low. Pervo!”

Holding the paternity report, Tharcia twirls
away. Porterfield savors a fleeting glimpse of butt cheek. Before the door slams Clay is in his face.

“There’s your answer dude. There’s the exit. Now’s the time.”

Porterfield, half a head taller, edges back. “My legal team will call.”

Clay laughs. “Stay away from her, peewee. You’re not connected enough to touch me.”

Nevertheless, as the black SUV eases away between tall trees, a clutch of cold dread in Clay’s gut.
Her dad, maybe-maybe, but WTF does the dude want?

Arnold Friedman is frustrated. Appointed lead investigator for General Solberg’s mass hallucination inquiry into the Pentagon appearance, now he’s had to assign half his team to the
Fish Jump
event. Inevitable spread of rumors describe an apparition, the appearance of a small lake on a conference table, observed by in-room and remote attendees. He shouldn’t be investigating, he was part of it. But Solberg is in a hurry. The pace of events makes Friedman apprehensive, protocol impossible to maintain. Assistants in the last hour have texted him links to recent cases of odd public behavior. Rising mass hysteria? Friedman, with every ounce of his will, tries to tell it
no
.

Of the
eighty-four men and women in Solberg’s meeting, Friedman’s people have so far debriefed thirty-six. Each responded to a polygraph interview in two parts: a fixed list of questions, then conversational questions developed
ad lib
based on their initial replies. So far, except for the normal variations in descriptive and observational abilities, Friedman is ready to be convinced that they're talking about a real event. But what
kind
of real?

Pentagon police had blockaded the corridor before the Fish Jump meeting broke. They were likewise ready at the remote meeting rooms. The coded alert the
y received mentioned a possible psi-attack in the main conference room and connected video rooms. Without knowing the nature of the incident, the Pentagon force had procedures in place.

Participants are separated into groups and led to six meeting rooms, where they sit under armed guard, not allowed to converse. Briefcases and bags are quickly searched. All bottled liquids are being analyzed for hallucinogenic substances. Electronic devices are sequestered. The conference room itself is undergoing a thorough evidence inventory.

Friedman, behind one-way glass observing yet another subject interview, feels he could quit now, with reliable results. With no outliers among the first three dozen subjects, he’s certain that a genuine paranormal event took place in the main conference room. He’d seen it himself, from the back of the room, watched everyone react. No imagery of the event has so far been found on any of the sequestered phones, tablets, or cameras. The remote video link captured only static.

In a nearby
meeting room, Chris Strand waits with a dozen others for his preliminary debrief. All are edgy, impatient, wanting to hurry and get on with their top priorities. General Solberg sticks his head in, motions Strand out of the room. The police make a move to stop them.

Solberg says, “No,
this debrief was my order. We’re going to talk in the corridor for a minute. Not about the event, other things.”

One of the police escorts them, stands watchful
nearby as Solberg whispers to Strand. “Chris, I need Next History on the whale migration immediately. Every inference must be documented. We need to know why whales are moving. We have a guess they are headed for the lat and long marked on the Antarctic blue.”

Strand’
s eyes widen, he scratches the back of his hand. “We’ll make it priority, Ralph. Can we acquire any coded military transmissions?”

“As soon as you get through with your debrief, meet me in my office. It's
a temporary one on Seven. I’ll put you in touch with my chief of security.”

“Of course, Ralph. Can you expedite me out of this
inquiry?”

Solberg shakes his head.
“Damn, son, I’d have to countermand my own order. I’m participating too, surrendered all my electronics, feel naked. I made you VIP, so please bear with it. And as soon as you get any indication of what the whale thing means, pull me in face-to-face. In fact, face-to-face will be the only way the team communicates. Absolutely nothing electronic in reference to it.”

Solberg turns away, two uniformed officers
hurry to keep up as he walks swiftly down the polished corridor. The Pentagon cop ushers Strand back inside the silent conference room. Fortunately, the Navy debrief team is interviewing ranking officers and VIPs first. Strand barely sits before his name is called. He’s led through a side corridor guarded by five PFPA in SWAT gear holding semi-automatics. Soon Strand is in what amounts to a polygraph room, a mirrored wall, a straight-backed wooden chair before a small table. Across from him is a pleasant-looking woman in Navy blues.

“Good afternoon, I am Elizabeth Goodwin. I will be asking you a few questions in our protocol, you’ll then be allowed to leave.”

Strand nods. While the interviewer has a steady demeanor, Strand can tell she is troubled.

“Place your palms on the two tablets, Mr. Strand. It’s all you have to do.”

Strand does so. “This is your equipment?”

Goodwin smiles. “It is quite sensitive. Full name, please?”

“Christopher Walker Strand.”

“Occupation?”

“President and CEO of Next History, a Delaware corporation. General Solberg and the Department of Defense are among my clients.”

Routine questions follow, about his birth date and place, today’s date and time. Qualifying questions he alone would know from personal history.

“Thank you. Now, referring to the events in conference room GL-1121 this morning, were you aware of anything out of the ordinary?”

“During the course of a
meeting in GL-1121, there appeared on the table a water surface I took to be a lake. A ten-pound fish jumped. A Greenback Cutthroat.”

“Greenback Cutthroat, sir?”

“A trout. I happen to feel that fish was very far from home.”

“Explain, Mr. Strand.”

“It’s a western species of trout, if I recall correctly.”

“How can you be so specific?”

Strand smiles. “I vacation out West, with friends.”

“You mentioned a lake.”

“Yes, the entire surface of the table took on the appearance of a freshwater lake.”

“Freshwater, sir?”

“Had a marshy look. Also it smelled like fresh.”

“You smelled something sir?”

“Before the fish jumped, the air in the room changed. It was pleasant, like a spring day in the woods. There were bugs above the water. Mosquitos. Wild grasses.”

Goodwin asks interpretive questions about the smells and aromas, the behavior of the
water, the jumping fish, how long the event lasted. She asks trick questions, prodding him to supply details he had not mentioned or observed. Finally they are done.

“Thank you Mr. Strand. You may retrieve your belongings through that door. General Solberg thanks you for your service. He cautions you to not speak of this event outside of his teams.” As Strand leaves, a burly PFPA ushers another man into the chair he has just vacated.

“Full name please,” Goodwin says behind him. Strand closes the door. Gathering his belongings under the watchful eyes of four police, Strand stops cold, looking at a mark on his hand. He looks away, tries to recall clearly. Yes the memory comes, from Solberg’s meeting. He rubs the irritated flesh. Something that was not there when he found his way to his place at the big table.

On the back of his hand, a
n angry red mosquito bite.

Without knowing how she does it, Tharcia Harrison is a person who’s prepared for life to come at her, although in quirky fashion. At age 11, she watched a friend tumble headfirst from high in a tree. She uttered a mental scream,
No!
as she watched the girl plummet down, and reached imaginary hands over a 10-yard gap. The girl got up and climbed the tree again. The year after, Tharcia threw a screaming fit before her mom drove to the airport for a weekend in Las Vegas. She was absolutely certain her mom should not fly that day. Mom would not listen, and left Tharcia in tears with her sitter. The ten minutes that scene consumed, plus a traffic delay near the airport, caused her mother to miss the flight. The jet skidded off the runway landing in Vegas, dozens injured.

Tharcia occupies
a comfortable wingback chair in her psychologist’s office, although a soft couch is available. Tharcia prefers to have her eyes at the same level as Dr. Gloom, her private name for Dr. Kristina Novak. She’s kicked off her shoes, folded her legs beneath her.

“How are you feeling this week, Tharcia? Any changes in your
mood?”

Tharcia shrugs. “About the same. Taking what you gave me.”

“And how is your sleep?”

“The new stuff
lets me sleep most of the night. But wild dreams come, sometimes.”

“
You want to tell me about those dreams, Tharcia?”

“It's embarrassing.
Well, one is. The other is just odd.”

“
This is a private, safe space for you my dear. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but it might show the way to helping you.”

“
Help me with what? What do I need help with?”

“
You want to reconcile with your mother. You told me that.”

“
Mm. Reconcile is not the word.”

“Then what is?”

“I want to tell her how she hurt me, why I’m angry. Tell her my shit face to face.” For a second, Dr. Novak sees before her the pleading expression of a young girl. But quick as she blinks, it’s the untroubled face of a beautiful woman intent on hiding something. Total lockdown.

“Now, Tharcia, when you first came to me, you were talking about ideas that were a little…
unusual. We discussed those, remember? We agreed there is no way, now, that you and your mother can be together, correct? Is that still your mission, or do you have another goal?”

Tharcia
considers. Outside the window birds flit among a tree’s low branches. What she visualizes is seeing her mom alive, telling her everything, making her listen. It’s too mixed up in her head to explain. She’s fully rational, understands what it means that her mother is dead. But she’s having these dreams. Vivid. Other realities leaking in. Perhaps unwise she’s mentioned those. Her whale dream? No. Too precious, too new. Not for now. She’ll divert, using one of Dr. Gloom’s favorite words.

“
Okay,” Tharcia says. “In this one dream, I woke up in a dark place surrounded by lots of people. Everyone was naked.”