Stasis: A Will Vullerman Anthology (4 page)

And then another thought gripped Will's mind. He went on to the next casket and examined it.

He whispered the words aloud. "Jack Decker—Hesston, Kansas."

If each casket contained a person in perfect stasis...

Will glanced back at the door. There! A light switch, just to the left of the door. Will ran forward and threw the switch, his excitement fueling his speed.

Light flooded the room. No, it wasn't a room—it was more like a warehouse. Lights blinked on, starting at the point where Will was. They revealed more caskets. And more. And more. An endless maze of them. There weren't just a few caskets in this place. There were hundreds.

And as the lights continued to spread, Will revised his statement.

There were
thousands
.

Will went to the booth he had seen earlier and touched the screen of the touchpad. It powered on and showed a dizzying row of numbers and words.

A male computer voice said, "Persons in Stasis: 12,034,245. Stasis retention: 100%. Fatality rate: 0%. Dates placed in stasis: 2134 A.D. through 2136 A.D."

Will swallowed, but this time it was not in fear. It was in awe. Twelve million people. Twelve million people saved from the North American genocide.

"Computer?" Will could barely speak the word. But to his delight, the computer answered.

"Yes?"

"Please bring up a map of America, showing this underground, uh, stasis...place."

The computer hummed, and then a detailed map of North America appeared on the screen. A cream-colored blotch appeared on the center of the screen, and then darkened. It was labeled "Kansas Facilities". Beside it, in red, it said, "Security screening signal compromised. Take action immediately."

"Computer..." Will glanced at the caskets again. Dare he hope? "Show me all the facilities like this in North America."

There was nothing but a whir at first, but then something happened on the screen. Starting at the facility in Kansas, blotches spread out across the continent. First, just a few. And then the number grew.

Will couldn't speak, his gaze glued to the screen.

"All facilities are on the map," the computer said.

Everywhere. All over the North American continent, there were dark blotches that indicated other underground facilities. Beside each was a green check mark, which probably meant that they were still secure and cloaked.

"Dear God.” He steadied himself on the short wall beside him.

The entire nation had been saved. The entire continent still lived. Hundreds of millions were alive, if this facility was anything to judge by.

America was in stasis.

He couldn't do anything. He couldn't even move. He could only think:

God had mercy.

"Computer." Will felt like he had a rock lodged in his throat. He cleared it and continued speaking. "Disable communications blockage."

"Communication block disabled," the computer said.

His own comm system beeped. "Communications restored," his comm said.

"Vullerman? Are you there?" The voice of Sunglasses came through loud and clear.

Will closed his eyes and smiled. Shock was receding. Euphoria was kicking in. "Sir, am I ever allowed to know your name?"

"Vullerman, we don't have time to play games. What did you discover? Our readings say you're underground. Did you find anything?"

"Oh, I found something, all right." Will couldn't help but laugh. "I've made the greatest discovery since Columbus set sail in 1492."

Will could almost hear the excitement in the man's voice: "What did you find? Weapons? American war tech?"

"No sir. I've found something much better." Will grinned. "I've found that God had mercy, and that America still lives. In stasis. Send Immanuel to pick me up."

And then he ended the call.

THE REALITY RING

Will Vullerman drummed his fingers on the polished dining room table. He let out a huff and stilled his fingers, sitting back in his chair.

How long would they make him wait?

The last time Will had asked that question, it had catapulted him into the adventure of a lifetime and the discovery of the century. And now, he was virtually under house arrest.

Will let his gaze wander, taking in the familiar sights of his house. A painting from his grandparents hung on the cream wall to the left of the four-seat table. It was a Kansas landscape. To think he had seen America with his own eyes...

He slumped in his chair and tried his best not to sulk. His gaze traveled past the painting and down the hallway. To the right, the room yawned and stretched into his living room—comfortable couches with a touch-table and a wall TV. Behind him, he knew there were kitchen cabinets—real wood, even. The government hadn't skimped on his comfort.

But comfort was exactly what Will had a problem with.

Will focused his gaze on the comm unit that he had dumped on the table. A few insulated wires extended from a small earpiece, disconnected from the rest of the comm's setup, which was a small keypad. They had called it a “transfer”, taking his old ASP comm and replacing it with this bulky Voltage 2170.

Should he try contacting the ASP? His comm could probably scavenge an ASP number. The tech guy that had given him the Voltage told him that it was loaded with all of the memory from his previous comm.

That is, unless the ASP had wiped his comm's memory of ASP numbers, like they did when they fired agents. That was probably what they had done, since Will was virtually excommunicated from ASP business. Will snorted in disgust, picking up his comm.

But what would he say, even if he
could
find an ASP number? Will tried rehearsing it aloud. "Hello, this is Will Vullerman. According to your files, I'm still in active duty but temporarily suspended, for no reason whatsoever. Politely, I'd like to be given a mission. Any mission. Being at home all the time is killing me."

He stopped for a moment. No, that last sentence didn't sound professional. He changed it: "I'm eager to continue working to help my country."

It was a half-truth, but half-truths were half-lies. No, what Will really wanted was some excitement. He was alive when he was working on a mission, as alive as anyone could be. To have a purpose—that was life. But he didn't have a purpose. Not anymore. He lived for the next mission, and not much else.

That was why he asked the government to let him keep his job, and to keep his identity secret. The world didn't need another celebrity, and Will doubted he'd get much excitement if people were following him around all the time, trying to see the "great man" who had discovered the American labyrinths. That's what the media was calling them, right? Labyrinths. Millions of people in stasis, saved from America's last and greatest war.

Sure, it would be nice to be known for something, but the cost was too great. So, for now, the name of the agent that had rediscovered America would remain a secret.

Will focused on the table again. It was genuine oak, dating from the early twenty-first century.

Genuine oak wouldn't give him a purpose, now would it?

"A purpose greater than yourself makes you better," his grandpa had often said. "But a purpose that is contained to your own little world contains your growth to what you already are."

Will glanced back at the hallway. Halfway down the hall he could see the framed picture of his grandparents. He wished his grandpa were with him now—he'd surely have something to say about this situation.

That's it. He was going to try to call the ASP. He couldn't take it anymore.

Will stood up and raised his comm.

Something banged, echoing down the hallway. A door creaked. Distantly, a footstep thumped. Or was it his imagination?

It was nothing. Probably. Nevertheless, Will stood up and slipped away from the table, moving into a corner where he would be invisible to anyone in the hallway. He thrust his comm into his left pocket.

"Will Vullerman."

Behind him!

Will whirled in the direction of the voice, sending his right leg into a sweeping kick as he did. His leg met with nothing and threw Will off balance. He rolled into a crouch and faced his opponent.

An olive-skinned man stood in the middle of Will's living room. He held something in his hand, but Will couldn't see what it was. He wore a simple long-sleeve t-shirt and navy jeans. His black hair was cropped close to his head. His dark-eyed gaze met Will's, and Will stared back.

Will asked the first question, rising up from his crouch: "Who are you?"

The man shrugged. "Does it matter? I need your help." His voice was low and scratchy, with a hint of an accent Will didn't recognize.

Will sized him up. The fellow was short. Not particularly strong-looking, kind of thin. Obviously, he knew how to move out of the way of a kick, but perhaps that was as far as his abilities went. Without the element of surprise, the man probably wouldn't be much of a threat. Still, Will wouldn't relax his guard. "Why did you break into my house?"

"I didn't break in.” The man fingered the hem of his shirtsleeve. Was he nervous? “Your back door was unlocked. But I had to use stealth—the ASP is watching your house."

"Are they?" Will snorted. No surprise there. "So why did you come? You could have gotten in trouble with the government."

"I told you, I need your help."

Will stood slowly to his feet. If this odd little guy thought Will would come to his aid with no explanation (as the ASP often had him do) he was sorely mistaken. But still, it would be
something
to do...if this fellow was legit. But why was he even considering it? "You need my help with what?"

The man didn't answer. Instead, he tossed something at Will. "Here, catch."

Will caught the object and studied it for a moment. Some sort of iron ring. But why a ring? And why iron? "What is this?"

"It's important." The man didn't offer any further explanation.

Will peered through the perfect circle. The ring looked like it would fit him, interestingly enough. Almost on a whim, he slipped it on the little finger of his right hand.

And then the room went dark.

************

"Director Brownbarr, sir!" The lanky man burst into Brownbarr's office with the speed of a twentieth century cannonball. His brown hair was wild and his ASP badge—with his name, Jeremy Mothinghotch, just visible—was hanging on by a couple of threads from his shirt.

Danton Brownbarr, the new Director of the African Secret Police, glanced up from his desk.

"What is it, Mothinghotch?" he snapped. Brownbarr had only been at HQ since eight in the morning, but he already knew that Mothinghotch had a knack for chaos and confusion, not to mention his barely adequate conformity to the dress code. "This had better be good, or I'll have you charged with gross breach of conduct and strung from a street light by your toes."

The man gulped visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Sir, it's Mr. Will Vullerman. There's been a problem in intelligence. He's—"

Brownbarr stood up. Vullerman? "No time to waste, Mothinghotch. Shut your yap and let's get to intelligence."

Brownbarr strode out the door as fast as Mothinghotch had come.

************

"What have we got?" Brownbarr leaned over the monitor. Behind him, he could hear the murmur of the other voices in the intelligence department through the open door.

"Take a look at this, sir." Mothinghotch scrolled through a list of files, selected a stream of video footage, and pulled it up on the screen. "This was taken approximately 12:34 GMT to 12:42 GMT through one of our tracking cameras in Mr. Vullerman's house."

The computer beeped, and displayed an image of Vullerman sitting at a table. At the top of the screen was the rest of the dining area and part of what looked like a living room. Vullerman's voice echoed through an invisible speaker. "Hello, this is Will Vullerman. According to your files, I'm still in active duty but temporarily suspended, with no reason whatsoever. Politely, I'd like to request to be given a mission. Any mission. Being at home all the time is killing me."

"Halt the stream.” Brownbarr frowned. "Vullerman hasn't been informed?"

"I thought you knew, sir—"

"Are you a blockhead, Mothinghotch, or do you simply have selective memory? I haven't been informed of anything on the Vullerman case yet. I was just transferred from the Ministry of Overseas Affairs."

"Sorry, sir. But no, Mr. Vullerman hasn't been informed."

Brownbarr grunted. "So he's had four anonymous death threats and we also intercepted a hit man in his neighborhood last week—and we're still keeping it a secret?"

"It was the Director's orders, sir." Mothinghotch paused for a moment. "Well, the
last
director, that is. And how do you know so much about Vullerman's case when you said you haven't been informed?"

"I haven't been informed...officially. But I've worked with Vullerman before, so I keep myself updated on the more public things." Brownbarr gestured to the screen. "Continue."