Seven Years Later

Jack Andresen shuffled through the ever-shrinking list of files in front of him. He was down to only five now. It had taken him weeks to narrow down the pool this far.

The first few cuts had been easy. Cut anyone whose likelihood of being a reader was estimated at less than 25%. Cut anyone under the age of eighteen, or over the age of thirty-five. Cut anyone currently employed by the government.

The later cuts were more difficult, as they were based upon less tangible criteria. Would a candidate be missed by those around him? Did the candidate have any useful skills other than their psychic potential? Did the candidate seem more or less likely to cooperate?

Those determinations took longer, required more finesse and intuition. This didn’t bother Andresen—that’s why they’d hired him.

He had a vague, shadowy idea about who “they” were. His best guess—near as he could tell—was that they were some sort of government faction. When he wasn’t looking at dossiers of completely innocent—or mostly innocent—people, Andresen was given the task of looking at vast amounts of media and intelligence on members of Parliament, searching for any inconsistency that could be used for discrediting or blackmail.

With this project, they wanted him to play a larger role in their future. He knew that he’d be intimately involved in the plan even after making the final selection. It would be his job to coerce these individuals, to persuade them to see his employer's point of view. By any means necessary, if need be.

The participants didn’t need to be willing. They just needed to obey.

His first selection would have to be careful. He wanted to begin with a success, with the subject most likely to respond to coercion. His eyes rested on one particular file:

Keats, Gabriel.

The profile was exactly what he’d been looking for; a low-profile, unimportant citizen with no substantial ties to the outside world. The subject didn’t keep in touch with any family, didn’t stay in the same place for longer than about a year. His psychic abilities had been concretely verified by the Alliance military, but they had deemed him unfit for further research.

At first, this determination had given Andresen a moment’s pause. There were any number of reasons that the Alliance might’ve tossed him aside, but Andresen didn’t see any of the traditional signs. There were no public health records on him, nothing indicating that he’d ever been involved in deeply antisocial behavior. The less he found, the deeper he dug, until he found another file.

Keats, Andrew.

The subject’s father—and his savior, if Andresen read between the lines correctly. Three days before the subject was discharged, his father had extended his tour of duty indefinitely. He’d sacrificed his retirement—his freedom—for his son.

It was almost touching, but Andresen hadn’t made any deals, and neither had his employers. The subject’s record showed that he had covert skills, shaky morality, and extreme sensitivity to amygdalae inhibitors. He was a perfect subject.

Andresen looked at the file. Last known whereabouts. They placed him on a tiny moon with only the scantest of settlements. Not an ideal place to perform an operation, but they could wait, could bide their time until he left, or until there were enough people around that he could slip in and out unnoticed.

He would do this himself. He had to. It was a matter of pride. No, it was more than that—it was a game. It was an art. And he knew he would break the subject just as sure as the sun rose.

Part Six: Awakening

When Gabriel woke up, he was in a hospital bed, covered by blankets and surrounded by machines making whirring and beeping noises. His throat hurt.

. . .why did his throat hurt?

He sat up, rubbing his head, then froze as he saw the uniformed guard sitting in the corner. The guard was older—close to his father’s age—and looked at him with a not-unkind smile.

“Do you need some water?”

Gabriel swallowed a few times. “Yes.” His voice came out rough and dry, and forming the words made pain shoot through his entire upper body.

The guard walked over to a nearby sink, filled a glass with water, and handed it to Keats. He started drinking it, grateful, until his brain fully awoke, and he remembered what happened.

The pill. They must have drugged him. . .some kind of hallucinogen. And what’d he’d done. . .

. . .he wouldn’t think about that. His head was clear now.

Hell. He was drinking the water. Who knew what kind of go se was in it. Gabriel stopped mid-gulp.

“You’re being very nice for someone who’s keeping me under arrest.” When he spoke, his voice was still a bit raspy, and it hurt like hell, but the water had made him more confident. Angrier.

“You’re not under arrest.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To give you these.” The man reached inside his jacket and pulled out a leather folder, placing it in Gabriel’s lap before retreating to the far wall.

Hands trembling, Gabriel opened the folder. Inside were several papers, printed on thick, elegant looking stock.

Certificate of Discharge.

“I’m discharged,” he said, disbelief ringing in his voice. “How in the hell did—why?”

“Do you really want to know?” Lucky son of a bitch.

Gabriel jumped at the insult, but forced his voice. “I’m sorry—what did you just say?”

“Do you really want to know?”

With a frustrated sigh, Gabriel shook his head. Must be imagining things. Must be paranoid. Hadn’t he been through enough to earn it?

“How long do I have to stay here?”

“Until you feel well enough to leave.” The guard lowered his voice, and moved close to Gabriel. “You have a reprieve, son. I’d advise that you move as quickly as possible, before the powers that be change their minds.”

As the guard spoke, Gabriel felt a powerful wave of emotion come over him; it was anger, pure and clear, more intense than he’d ever felt in his entire life. The bastard was threatening him; he should strike out; he should stop him; how dare he? He’d kill the hwun dan, watch his brains leak out. . .

A broad, wild smile emerged on Gabriel’s face, but then the feeling was gone as quickly as it had come, and he was left pale and shaking, smile fading as the horror of his thoughts washed over him. Silently, he stood from the bed, the sheets falling from his body, leaving him completely bare to the world.

“Get out,” he said, voice level.

“I’m not authorized--”

“Get the fuck out!” Gabriel screamed, voice filled with fear and rage. The guard looked at him, then nodded and backed away and out of the room, latching the door behind him.

After a few moments spent gaining his composure, Gabriel looked around the room. A set of clothes was resting in a chair on the far side of the room. He walked over, looked at them for a moment, then put them on. The feel of the fabric felt strange, alien against his skin.

Dressed and more-or-less presentable, he looked at the leather folder still lying on the bed. Without hesitation, he scooped up the folder and walked to the window.

It was so high up.

It was too high.

He sighed and headed to the door, where the guard was waiting. Wordlessly, he walked past the guard and out of the hospital, into the bright, shining lights of the Core.

Part Five: Voices

It was Gabriel’s fourth day in his cell, and he was getting nervous. The last interrogation had been bad. Nothing like torture—the Alliance was far too civilized to do that—but he’d sat in a room in front of a metal table and a mean-looking guard for something like twelve or fourteen hours—he wasn’t sure—and now he needed to sleep.

He couldn’t sleep. They’d forced some kind of pill down his throat, made him swallow it, and now he was awake. How many days had it been since he slept? He couldn’t count; it felt like a hundred, but was probably closer to two.

In the stark, harsh coldness of the cell, Gabriel had begun to feel guilty. Not for fighting—the hwun dan sons of bitches had it coming—but for betraying the Alliance. And for betraying the Independents. For betraying someone.

He couldn’t remember who.

The room was spinning, faster and faster. He knelt on the floor, pressed his head into his knees; it didn’t stop the spinning; it felt as though it was in his head, as though his brain was being scrambled inside his ruttin’ head.

And there were voices.

At first they were clear, concise; he could pick out words and phrases. Twenty-three degrees left. Am I going to be on duty tonight. Gorram Captain; wish I could tear him a new—

After a few moments, they all blurred together, a cacophony of sound and words, none of which were distinct. He clutched his head, bit back the scream that was forming deep in his chest.

And then the voices grew accusatory, started talking to him. You’re worthless. You’re a traitor. You should give up.

You deserve to die.

He wouldn’t give up. Patrick wouldn’t have given up. But the voices were so loud, and if he talked, they could stop them, it had to be the gorram drug they gave him, it messed him up, and the voices were so loud, and they needed to ruttin’ stop.

You deserve to die.

He knew one way he could stop the voices. That he could keep from talking.

He crawled over to the cot with the pristine cotton blanket that they’d given him to sleep on. Slowly, numbly, he took it up in his hands and pulled. He gnawed at it, the voices grown to the point where he could no longer hear anything; only his own thoughts.

The threads split. He pulled it apart, shredded the blanket into two long strips. He tied them together, double knotted.

You deserve to die.

There was a light fixture on the ceiling. They hadn’t seen this coming. They wouldn’t see it coming. He tied the blanket to the fixture, stood on the bed, then tied it around his own neck.

Traitor.

He jumped off the bed. It didn’t hurt. He was beyond pain.

He was gone.

------------------------------------------------------


“What the hell do you mean, ‘your son is in custody?’”

“We picked him up on Hera. He’s a prisoner of war. Normally, we’d just process him, but, since you’re his father—”

“I get it. You’re doing me a favor.”

“. . .he tried to kill himself two nights ago. We’re keeping him sedated.”

“What—where is he?”

“He’s in custody on Londinium. He was transported there to participate—”

“The program.” The tall man with the graying hair paused, wiped his eyes, and thought, this is all my fault. “Shit. You have to get him out of there.”

“It’s already been approved.”

“Then why are you calling me.”

“Because I can unapprove it.”

“Hwun dan.”

“It gets the job done. He’s still a good subject, but he isn’t the best we’ve found. He’s. . .expendable.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re scheduled to resign in three months.”

“I won’t.”

“Fifteen years.”

“Done. Now get him the hell out of there. Sir.”