"The Lineman" (NEW MATERIAL ADDED!!)

(NEW MATERIAL!! This posting includes two sequences of a new fiction piece I'm working on that I am tentatively calling "The Lineman." In it we meet Chez [sounds like fez], learn a little about his present situation, and get introduced to the story. I have now added some new material to the initial sequence, as well as adding a second section -- Steve)

THE LINEMAN
By Steve Orr

Chez Makes a Discovery

Alphonse “Chez” Chesterton was simultaneously enjoying one of the positives of his current employment while dealing with one of its negatives. On the positive side, his new iChip had synced perfectly with his gauntlet despite the fact they were produced two years apart and by different companies (as advertised, he had to admit) and he was currently vibing on a rollicking piece of music being played by a group who’s general popularity had peaked in the previous millennium. But Chez had liked them the first time he had heard them; and now his iChip was loaded with them (as well as with several other bands from that period – who knew I’d ever like this stuff?).

On the negative side, he was also currently climbing a tree out in the back end of nowhere. Nobody cared if he listened to his chip on this job, so he did it all the time; driving from location to location, during analysis & repairs; even when he, on rare occasions, had to actually talk with a client or some other local (hey, they couldn’t tell). The big downside was that he had to do things like he was doing today … finding out why the video feed from this location had gone to snow.

Somewhere in New York City, just off Broadway, was a cozy little restaurant (not really cozy or little, but patrons thought of it that way) with one of those menus that doesn’t list the price of anything (way above my pay grade, that’s for sure). Strategically placed on its walls, so each group of diners had the sense they were dining somewhere else, were large video panels, each with its own separate view of some bucolic scene; sheep grazing in New Zealand, Kobe cattle doing much the same thing in Japan, a relatively empty meadow with occasional breeze riffling through the wildflowers, “Main Street” in a small Texas Panhandle town, the Serengeti Plain, etc. There were more than 70 of these “dining experiences” scattered through “Tableaus,” each with its own collection of groupies.

The ambiance at “Tableaus” (and its above-top-dollar menu) made it a big profit center for FSC, Chez’s employer, and keeping the technology working that produced all that ambiance was Chez’s job. When Chez had come to work for First Solar Corp (FSC; he had to remember to call it FSC … they had switched to letters recently because, they said, people were confusing them with the eco’s) almost five years ago he’d been especially excited about working for them. First, he was already on his third round of living on the dole; if he didn’t come up with a job pretty quick he was going to have to move into a shelter (not the bottom, but you could definitely see it from there). Second, it seemed like someone had tailor-made the job for him; tech (he liked tech; he and tech got along really fine, far better than he and many of the people in his life), world travel (something he had always wanted to do but could never afford), almost complete daily autonomy (he had a boss, but rarely saw or even heard from the woman – “Chez, get it done. Get it done right. Get it done fast. And then move on to the next thing. Keep your log up to date. I’ll contact you if I have any questions.”).

So here he was, high up a tree in the Texas Hill Country (a little too high for comfort); and what does he find? The camera was there, still securely strapped to the tree and facing a meadow that rolled gently down to the Perdenales River. However, the transmitter (the key fail point to the whole shebang in Chez’s estimation … if the scene could not be transmitted to the satellite, no one was going to enjoy it over dinner) was nowhere to be seen. An uninformed observer would not have realized this as quickly as Chez did since the whole operation was encased in a small, flexible weather-proof housing. But Chez knew there would be a small bump on the crown of the housing if the transmitter were in place, and, even from behind and to the side, he could see there was no bump. It was possible, he knew, that the transmitter had somehow come loose within the housing, but the likelihood of this was just about zero. No, the whole situation smacked of human intervention. Someone had fiddled with his tech. Chez did not like that; no-sir-ee. Not. At. All. He would note that in his log. Corporate might need to have a little talk with the folks that this tree was leased from; nobody should be up here messing with FSC property.

In order to see into the housing, Chez needed to swing around so he was facing the clear thermoplastic screen that formed the “front” wall of the housing; the piece that allowed the device inside to “see” the meadow. Ideally, he would look in, see that the transmitter was there, just not connected. If that was the case, he thought the rubbery housing was flexible enough that he could manipulate the transmitter back into place without having to remove the housing, and that would be that. Off in time to drive back in to Austin and grab some supper at Chez Nous. He’d been hooked on French food ever since spending a few days working in Provence last year. Plus, he thought it was kind of funny that, even though they were spelled the same, his name sounded like “fez” while the restaurant’s name sounded like the “sha” in shake. (Those French).

The problem was his safety harness. The harness was prevented from dropping any lower by a limb growing from the opposite side of the tree, and he needed to be just a tad lower to see into the housing. He had tried loosening the harness, but even at its most forgiving it would not allow him to swing around in front of the housing at the right elevation to peek inside. Of course, company safety policy required he do his work in harness; but, he reasoned, this was just one of those situations the policy did not take into account. Besides, it would only take a moment to swing around, look inside, and, he was certain, wiggle to transmitter back into position. He reached around the trunk and flipped the catch on the strap that tethered him to the tree, but left the main belt cinched around his waist. The two lengths of strap now hung from the left and right side of the belt,, respectively.

The limbs were thinner this high up, so Chez tested it before he transferred all of his weight to the limb he would need to stand on so he could do his peering. It gave a little when he pressed down with his foot, but it seemed sturdy enough for his needs. He thought he would be okay if he kept his weight close to the trunk. At times like this he really missed using his spurs (he had an excellent set back in his apartment; Buckingham tree spurs that had somehow followed him home from his stint in the military). After the eco’s got the UN to adopt the Tree Preservation Initiative following the “green wars,” all the countries that still had trees signed on immediately; and those countries that wanted trees eventually signed on when they realized there was no way to get trees without agreeing to abide by the Initiative. Now, no sane person would make a hole in a tree—the fine, alone, would kill you—because you were likely to be sued by the eco’s, or worse. Some of those folk were not entirely rational when it came to the ecosphere.

He reached up and grabbed a much smaller limb that grew from the trunk a few feet directly above the housing. This one had been trimmed back a little so as to not block the view, something the local was required to do from time to time in satisfaction of the lease agreement. Keeping his hand on the upper limb, Chez moved around so he was facing the front of the housing, and then leaned out a little because his eyes were still just a smidge too high to see what he needed to see.

For a few seconds he was disoriented. Something wasn’t right. He was still trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what should actually be inside the housing when, with a loud “crack,” the limb beneath him gave way. Everything seemed to happen all at the same time. He tightened his grip on the limb above, searched left and right for another to grab hold of with his free hand. Then, before he could find another purchase, the upper limb broke from the trunk as well, never having been strong enough to hold his entire weight. As he dropped, one foot hit a lower branch. This resulted in Chez being flipped onto the horizontal, almost perpendicular to the trunk, face to the sky. As he helplessly tilted outward, he saw the jagged end of the upper limb, opposite from where his hand still clutched its leafy extremity, strike the tech housing.

Chez watched as everything at the level of the housing and above disappeared in a loud, bright explosion. He felt the lower limbs smacking his back as he continued to fall, and then, slamming into the ground, knew nothing more.

Chez in Deep

He was really deep this time. Why had he dived so far down? This deep in the Amazon River there was nothing to see; all about him was pitch blackness. And no light. Why would he dive so deep without a light? And no cage. There was nothing between him and everything else that lived down here. He had to surface! Where was the surface? In the all-consuming darkness he started to panic. But then his training kicked in. Inventory: nothing … no, wait. He was breathing, so he must be rigged. Panic would only use up his air faster. He forced himself to take slow, even breaths until he felt himself calm down. His arms … for some reason he could not move his arms very much; and there seemed to be some cords or straps on his left arm. His feet … ahhhh! He began to kick. Yes, there was something limiting his legs as well; but not so much that he couldn’t accomplish scissoring flips with his feet. And in knowing there was something restricting his legs told him where “down” was. Now that he was oriented, he tilted his head back a bit and … there. It wasn’t much, but it would do; a gray smudge where all about everything else was fully black.

Slowly, he moved toward the smudge; coming a bit closer with each little kick. In time he sensed the smudge was growing brighter. He kicked harder, wanting to breach the surface more than he had ever wanted anything. Finally he looked up and saw the smudge had become a disc of light rumpled by the movement of the great river. And then, just before he got to the surface, while still surrounded by the gray-green of the upper waters … that’s when he heard the voice.

“Why aren’t you dead?”

Writer’s Notebook Shameful moment

By Steve Orr

PLEASE IGNORE THIS PIECE. IT WAS PUSHED TO YOU IN ERROR. IT HAS BEEN REVISED, AND THE REAL PIECE IS TITLED "INCIDENT AT 10TH AND CLARK". THANKS, STEVE

In less than 60 seconds we went from wild cacophony to utter silence.

Welcome to Jetton Junior High School, spring 1964. There were a couple hundred of us; talking, shouting, laughing, nudging, arguing, courting, playing; and our keepers were ever watchful to ensure the arguments or the games of “slap-hands” didn’t escalate into actual fighting, that the courting didn’t cross that indefinable (at least to us) line into public-display-of-affection, that the laughter wasn’t somehow connected to something salacious. We were, all of us, keepers and kept, fully engaged in our after-lunch rituals, using up the time until the next class bell rang and called us back into the building for additional societal formation. It was a warmer-than-usual spring day and we were a bit more rambunctious than the norm, perhaps sensing in the air the coming of summer and our annual parole from public education.

All of that, that activity, the keeping; it all just stopped. Though not abruptly. There was a definite fading process that seemed to take forever but that really only lasted, at most, a minute. I’ve gone over and over this, and after several years I can confidently say it took about a minute to go from thunderous noise to something so silent I can find no analog in my other memories with which to compare it.

Oh, how those minutes weigh on me, even now in my fifth decade since it occurred. I’ve done some bad things in this life (and haven’t we all?), some things of which I am ashamed; but this particular moment, this sticks with me, rises up from the lake of my memory time and again like nothing else. No amount of wishing or hoping will make it go away. My memory refuses to let me lose this one. It looms so large in my reflections that I count it among those things I mean when I repeat (as I do more and more these latter days) David’s petition to God in the Psalms: “Remember not the sins of my youth.”

The first thing I noticed was the change in the sound. Somewhere out along the farthest edges of our crowd, near the street, sound had stopped. I’ve always been a sound person, probably because my vision is so poor. I was in thick glasses by the time I entered the third grade and have lost some ground every year since. So, by the time I arrived at this shameful moment I was already to the point I could not safely walk down the hall of our junior high school without my glasses.

Yet, that day, I could see well enough to go along with everyone else. And I could easily recognize the change in the quality and volume of our massed sound.

I was up on the large and grand porch that fronted our school and about as far from what happened as I could be and still be part of it. I say “large and grand” because our school had, at one time, been the largest and grandest of our town’s three high schools. One of many changes wrought by Brown v Board of Education was the consolidation of all the high schools into the newest facility, located way out around 25^th Street.

I remember turning away from my friends and looking towards the street. In my recollection I was the only person anywhere near me who, initially, noticed what was happening out at the street edge. My two good friends stood next to me, absorbed in a common exercise; taking turns trying to slap each other’s hands before said hands could be jerked away, and, supposedly, out of harms way. It was an interesting, and often painful, lesson in eye-hand coordination that many boys around my age participated in; the more aggressive among us getting to hit something, while the rest of us learned to get out of their way. One of those excellent life lessons one learns outside the classroom.

What I saw when I looked toward the street was not completely without precedence; my fellow students—friends, enemies, acquaintances, strangers—pausing to look at something passing by our school; usually an automobile of some sort. We were situated right on a sometimes busy, divided street; one of the reasons our keepers were so adamant about our never leaving school property; there was the actual chance one could come to harm just by stepping off the curb and into the street. This rule was tested from time to time, and, if the miscreant was caught, he (and wasn’t it always “he”?) was quickly collared by one of the teachers, fully empowered by “in loco parentis,” and dragged off for a brief and meaningful conference with the Principal.

In my memory this moment seemed to take a long time; but, in reality, it could have only been seconds before I refocused from the first wave of watchers to what they were watching. I remember raising my eyes, seeing first the line of cars parked along the curb in front of the school, then to the single lane of street that was located closest to us, then to the wide, grassy berm which made it possible for simple 10^th Street to also be called Murrell Boulevard (since renamed to Walter Jetton Boulevard), then to the other lane which allowed traffic to drive in the opposite direction. In all that, I saw nothing. No passing cars, no bicycles, no one walking … nothing that should draw their attention away from all those things we thought were so important in those days.

But then my eyes finished their rise, and I saw the old man.

He was walking along the opposite sidewalk. Tall, thin, not-recently-shaven; wearing one of those sleeveless undershirts with the scoop neck, a pair of grey, shapeless pants that had been washed too often or had lain too long in the Salvation Army bin, of both, leather shoes that had seen better days, no socks. It was possible he could have been coming from almost anywhere. Our school sat on the corner of 10^th and Clark, only ten streets from the riverfront. There was a lot stuffed into that quarter of the city. My grandparents lived in a rent house not quite a block-and-a-half up Clark Street—I often stopped by to see them on school afternoons before walking the mile and a half home—but I think I would have known him if he was a friend of theirs, and I did not. Across the alley from my grandparent’s place, and at mid-block on Washington Street, was the local house of ill-repute; but that also seemed an unlikely source for the old man (Yes, I know … block-and-a-half from a junior high school … what can I say? Different place. Different time.). Directly across Washington from there was the back entrance to the Southern Bell Telephone Company where my mother worked; another unlikely starting point. The Andrew Carnegie Public Library? No.

These speculations were very brief; none of those fit the situation. Besides, we could all tell where he came from. It was obvious, obvious to us at least; he had just come from the small grocery store located a couple blocks nearer the river, on Clark near the intersection with 8^th Street. He was carrying a low-sided cardboard box (the kind you sometimes see on grocery store shelves with half a soup can showing above the cut-down cardboard edge) with three half-gallons of milk and a loaf of bread in it. That seemed to end any speculation about the origin of his journey that day. And, just as obvious to us all, he was taking these to his home. Anyone would have come to the same conclusions.

Carrying is not the right word. He was laden with that low-sided box and its content. From his slow, wobbly gate it was easy for anyone to see he had more than his ancient limbs could handle. Each step was a struggle. And even from my well-removed position, and with my bespectacled eyes, I could see the thin, ropey muscles of his arms starkly etched against the parchment of his skin. Here was a man who, clearly, had done a lot of what my grandfather called real work. Grand-daddy still labored at the Illinois Central Railroad Roundhouse, as he had all of his adult life (except for a two-year span during the depression when the whole family lived on his parents’ farm and he earned only $1.50), and he often told us he was pretty sure he knew what real work was. But we all grow infirm, don’t we, even those who have built up some muscle though hard work?

By this time, my friends had stopped to see what I was looking at; and thus began the slow domino into silence. Instead of moving toward us in waves, the silence moved both from us and from the street side to eventually meet somewhere in the middle of the crowd. In less than a minute all of us—friends, enemies, acquaintances, strangers; teachers and students, keepers and kept—were standing perfectly, silently still … watching.

To say the old man struggled would be to use too light a word. “Struggled,” “wrestled,” even “fought”; we’ve managed somehow to leech the weight and power out of these words. All that’s left me, that truly describes these events, is “battle.” That day we witnessed a man battle; battle against his own body with all the ferocity of a soldier attempting to overtake the enemy’s position amid a barrage of weapons fire. He gave it his all with each wavering step, knees slightly bent against the weight of his burden, determination painted in rivulets of sweat coursing down on his face.

I don’t think any of us was shocked when the first milk carton tumbled.

We had already stopped moving and talking; there was nothing else to stop except breathing. I’m pretty sure we all did that, too; I know I did. Again, it all seemed to move in some sort of horror-film-slow-motion; the corner of the box buckling just a little, the milk carton starting to tip over the edge, the old man reactively tugging everything up and thus causing the falling carton to start a slow end-over-end spin as it floated out of the box and toward the sidewalk. Kurosawa and Peckinpah could have taken lessons. I suddenly found myself leaning against the thick, sculpted concrete balustrade that kept us “porch kids” from tumbling into the broad array of hedges growing about a half story below. And I was not alone. Everyone was not just oriented on the old man; we were leaning toward him as we watched that carton of milk … oh … so … slowly … somersault toward the sidewalk. Reality: mere seconds. Subjectively: almost forever.

It hit with a slapping sound we all could hear.

And … nothing happened. The carton landed on its bottom, with no apparent harm to its contents. Everyone breathed. The moment of horror had passed. The relief that flooded though us was so strong, so palpable. Everything was A-O-K.

Then, as we were just beginning to think of returning to our previous activities, the old man moved to pick up the errant milk carton … and the second carton began its tumble from the box.

Stephen King fans will recognize this as a “Cujo moment”; that moment when (the good guys having finally won the day and realizing they have somehow survived, a moment of abject and profound relief) evil surges back for another bite! Long before I ever read Stephen King, long before I ever saw one of those just-can’t-kill-the-bad-guy movies, I experienced this horror. Right then I knew. Deep in the inmost place of my being I was forced to recognize truth: he was not going to make it. I wanted him to make it, but I had already come to the conclusion that he just could not do it. How does a man who has difficulty just walking pick up a carton of milk without dropping the rest of his load?

This time the top of the carton struck the concrete sidewalk. Milk spewed in every direction. By this time, the old man was kneeling on one knee. Milk splattered his feet, his legs, his shirt; a few drops hit him in the face. But back then we were a resolute lot, especially people of his generation. He soldiered on. He had lived through some of the more trying times of history; World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, Korea. Even my generation had been taught what to do in such a situation this: no crying over spilt milk. And he didn’t cry. He passed his hand over his face, wiping away the few droplets of milk there. He reached for the first, upright milk carton, placed it back in the box, and then slowly, carefully managed to raise himself back to a standing position without further crisis.

He resumed his slow, unsteady shuffle; not looking back at his failure, leaving it behind him in the way we had all been taught. In all this time, this subjective time of our viewing, he had not taken as much as 15 steps. Now, he resumed putting one foot before the other, wobbly but resolute. One step. Two. Three.

I’m not sure what actually happened. Maybe the first milk carton had sustained some damage when it landed upright on the sidewalk and had sprung a slow leak only after being returned to the box. Maybe all of his efforts had just exhausted the man. Whatever the cause, whether liquid-weakened cardboard or life-weakened sinews, on his sixth step away from the milk spill the box caved in the middle. This time it happened very fast. The two sides of the box flipped up to meet each other in the middle. Somehow in that process the bread and surviving milk cartons flew forward from the old man’s grasp. And he did grasp, at all of it. He actually got one hand on one of the cartons, but it slipped right through, perhaps already slick from leaking milk.

In a flash, chaos. Before him on the sidewalk were two burst milk cartons; a loaf of bread split open and sopping wet with milk, one of the cartons having landed directly on it before spilling and soaking the loaf. And now … now while grasping the folded and useless piece of cardboard … now the old man cried.

And through it all we watched.

####

[WRITER'S NOTEBOOK - What follows is not the story; rather it is my angst-y analysis of the events that day and our lack of response to the man's situation. Please feel free to skip all of this. Writing the piece allowed me to explore some deeply held anxieties about that day, feelings I have since worked through, thanks to the encouragement of my friends. I think the story stands on its own; it certainly doesn't require any of this to be engaging and thought-provoking all on its own.] And there it is; the thought that will not leave me alone. I should have gone to his aid. I should have called out to someone—friends, enemies, acquaintances, strangers—located at street’s edge: “Go! Help him!” I should have implored a teacher for … something; permission? I should have done something. Someone should have done something … right? But on this day no one left school property.

With decades of life from which to look back at this moment, I have come to realize that, even with the minutes it took for this tableau to unfold, I probably could not have moved from where I stood, even at a run, to reach his side in time to be of help; at least not from the time the first carton hit the sidewalk, the time when I concluded he was not going to make it. There was just not enough real time in which to act. But, someone located just across the street could have. I’m certain of it. But I not only failed to act, I failed to urge anyone else to act.

But there is a worse thought, pecking away at me like I am Prometheus’ liver: why didn’t I do something the moment I first laid eyes on the old man? It was obvious he was in trouble. He was battling with every step; something we could all see. What chain kept me? Why did I not act?

I clearly recall that the rules required me to stay on school property. Up to that point in my life I had had a somewhat flexible relationship with rules. Oh, I was, at my core, a compliant personality type. It was a rare instance where my parents had to punish me twice for the same infraction. I really did tend to learn from my mistakes. But, in all honesty, there were plenty of rules I regularly ignored when it suited me. This tended to take the form of not asking permission to do things when I was pretty sure permission would be denied; like riding my bicycle in downtown traffic to visit “Readmore,” our town’s only bookstore and newsstand. Don’t get the impression Paducah was like Mayberry. There were 50,000 plus souls about; with all that implies. The potential for trouble really did exist. Still, I rode my bike all over the town, and some parts of the county, whenever I wished. I just didn’t tell anyone who might stop me from doing so. On another front, I was always getting into trouble at the public library for sneaking upstairs to read the grown-up books when the rules clearly stipulated people of my age were restricted to reading books in the Juvenal section. I was eventually banned from the library for this practice, but that is a story for another time. I also had had, up to then, a rather lax attitude toward the completion of homework assignments. So, in my world, there were rules and then there were rules.

What had changed was that I had decided in the 7^th grade that I was responsible for me; that if I was to become anything in this life, it would be up to me to see that I did so. And the way that decision impacts on this tale is that I had come to a point where I was reevaluating my relationship to rules. Even in the few short months I had been in the 7^th grade I had observed the difference between how rule followers and rule breakers were regarded by the teachers and administrators. Clearly, there was some value to be mined from following rules. And that was the clear dilemma weighing on me that day as the old man fought, and lost, his battle with his aging body.

I was afraid. I was afraid what might happen to me if I broke the stay-on-school-property rule. Fear kept me from acting. Should I have disregarded the rule and acted to help my fellow human being who was in such obvious distress? Could I have? The memory of time is subjective. The saying goes, “History is the daughter of time.” I would add that memory is the daughter of want. I want to believe that any action on my part would have been too late to have helped the old man. But, honestly, even if that is truth, I never even took one step in that direction. I never moved. I could have, at the very least, moved from where I was rooted by my fear, down the steps, along the walkway, and out to the street edge. No rules would have been broken. I would have still been on school property. But I didn’t even do that much. I didn’t even try.

Perhaps you are kind and are willing to think, “Well, you were just a boy of 12. Really, what could you do?” Or perhaps you are willing to recognize the wisdom in a collection of rules designed to protect teens and pre-teens who have been entrusted to the public school system. Those rules, as we now know, really do have value, and provide some real protections to our children. Perhaps you would ask me, "What would you have wanted your own daughter to have done in that situation?"; knowing full well such a question would lead me to only one conclusion.

I’ve thought all those things … and more. Still, I can’t let it go. In some very real ways, I am who I am because of a few pivotal moments in my life. This is one of those moments that defines me. Since that moment, one that has imprinted me with a deep and everlasting shame, I have struggled (perhaps even battled) with what to do when I see (hear, learn of, sense, recognize) someone in need. Is it a situation in which I can help? Or, is it one in which my actions will be of no impact, or be too late to be of any real help?

What I would like to think (and what I truly believe) is that, because of this moment where I stood and did nothing when someone really needed help, I have since chosen, more times than not, to act, even if my rational mind counseled that my actions would be too late or of no useful impact.

In Hamlet, Shakespeare writes, “Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, when our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us, there’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.” I take some comfort in that passage. I would like to think that God has used that shameful moment to grow me, to develop in me a concern for others that has the capacity, at least, to act on their behalf even when it seems a wasted effort; to, when needed, cast aside my fear and do what I know is right.

Local Event (A novel) - Chapter 5

Local Event - CHAPTER FIVE

The Core

If not for the machines, The Core would have been silent. As it was, no human sounds could be heard. Sal would have bet money that, after almost two decades in this business, nothing could surprise her. In stunned wonder, she marveled that it had happened, not once, but twice in the space of a few hours.

What was all that about making the wall appear two feet closer? Did the gun really fire bullets? If so, what happened to them? Dying in Brazil? And the disappearance of the two men...how had they done that? Was it some sort of new cloaking technology? Were the men still in that room, no longer detectable by the Core's sensors? Or, could it be something else entirely?

And what was that about calling Jones "Colonel"? There was nothing in her records about Jones being in the military. And if he had been in the military, there would have to be a very good reason why it was hidden from her. There were security levels, and then there were security levels. That led off in a direction she was not sure she wanted to go.

She sat that way for some time. No one in the room felt the need to disturb her.

Eventually, she reached for a cigarette, lit it, drew deeply and held it. When she blew out the smoke, she had made a decision. Leaning toward the console before her, she opened a circuit and spoke in a low, calm voice.

"Code: Majestic."

About five seconds went by. Then, a female voice, steady, but with an overtone of disbelief, replied, "I am required to inform you that you have activated a Level 12 security protocol. Please verify that this was intentional."

"That is correct, Gunnery Sergeant Michaels," said Sal. "Please take us to Condition Yellow. No one leaves until the protocol is fully satisfied."

After another, longer pause, the upper half of the Marine appeared on the screen. Her face showed shock, her eyes questioning, but her voice remained steady when, moving closer to the camera, she quietly said, "Sal, are you sure?"

Touched by the genuine concern of her friend, Sal said, "It's Ok, Stacey. Everything will be fine. It's just going to take a while to sort it all out."

Stepping back from the camera, the Marine spoke in her "official" voice, "I acknowledge your verification. The Core is now locked down. Marines are posted at all entrances and exits. Until further notice, communications will be conducted on this channel, only."

"Thank you, Gunny", said Sal, the warmth of her voice carrying more meaning than just the words. Closing the circuit, Sal's thoughts began to fill with hopes for restored power, renewed franchise, and increased funding. She fought to extinguish the smile that was suddenly lighting up her face.

Stalking, she thought. Stalking the bad guys.

She opened a recessed panel on the console. Extracting a disk the size of small coin, she clipped it to her collar. She had never felt the need to wear the microphone, before. Now, however, she must be certain everyone in the room heard every thing she had to say. Standing, she turned and faced the terraced rows where her team sat, quietly watching her every move. When she spoke, her voice could be heard coming from each person's console.

####

The TAB

The TAB floated approximately eight feet above the ground. It noted the time (11:59:37 p.m. local) and location (USA. Texas. Austin. 572 9th street. Rear alleyway) as a matter of course. Other factors were noted; limited ambient light, minimal spill from distant street light at front of building, limited precipitation (level: fog), third shift construction crew on 38th level of building four blocks to the east. It didn't actually think about these factors. They were part of a continuous stream of data being compiled by it.

It had adjusted its exterior surface to a matte-black finish. It would not reflect or emit any light, sound, or other stimuli detectable by biological sensors under these conditions. As an added safety factor, it had located itself in a slender shadow cast by a window ledge. Among the limited choices available to the TAB, shadow concealment was the best in these low-tech circumstances.

Subject:Wayne had never been out of its sensor range from the point of acquisition, 73 minutes and 13 seconds ago. The TAB did not have a choice in the matter; it had to follow Subject:Wayne. That's what it was programmed to do. Mission parameters required it remain, at all times, beyond the sensory abilities of Subject:Wayne. An early sweep had revealed Subject:Wayne to be entirely tech free; no electronics of any kind. The TAB had noted the anomaly in its growing report of the night's activities. Tech-free humans were rare. The TAB had also noted the absence of any other surveillance equipment in the area.

If the TAB had feelings, no one knew about them. AI was new enough so that the humans who knew this kind of tech even existed were still never really certain which tech could think and feel, and which tech could only serve. Even developers had been surprised from time to time. If this TAB had feelings, it had to be experiencing some level of frustration. TAB's were programmed to be curious, in an electronic surveillance kind of way. For some unknown reason, this TAB could not fully satisfy its curiosity.

Another human had joined Subject:Wayne. The TAB could not identify this human. In fact, this human could not even be brought into focus by the TAB. Regardless of which optics it accessed, regardless of which other sensors it brought to bear, the best it could do was record a humanoid-shaped smudge.

Sound was no better. Subject:Wayne was being recorded without difficulty. However, Subject:Unknown:01 seemed to be producing meaningless, low volume sounds. No amount of adjustment could clarify the sounds coming from Subject:Unknown:01. The TAB noted the anomaly in its report. The TAB investigated various options. Each option was, in turn, compared to the mission parameters, and rejected. The primary objective of the surveil was Subject:Wayne. All other matters, including unknown subjects and anomalies, were secondary, only to be included in the report as they related to Subject:Wayne.

The TAB also rejected the option of making contact with its employer. Since the primary mission was undetectable surveillance, such transmissions were precluded. Contact would have to wait until the TAB presented itself, physically, before its employer. The mission parameters were clear on this matter. Thus the (yearning?) curiosity of the TAB remained unsatisfied, at least as it related to Subject:Unknown:01. Having no options, it continued to do what it did.

####


The North of England

It seemed he had been like this, forever. He was on his knees, and he was being sick. He had long ago emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground in front of him. His entire world had shrunk down to the heaving of his stomach muscles and the darkened view of the grass in his direct line of vision.

In his agony, he had little flashes of understanding. There was a light somewhere off to his right, distant and dim. He was crouched in some sort of field, on wet grass and earth. He was alone. When the next convulsion hit, he threw back his head. Water washed his face and flooded his mouth. Instinct slammed him forward again. He spewed the water from his mouth before it could choke him. He was outside, in a field, in a rainstorm. He knew he had to do something; he just couldn't think clearly enough to figure out what that was.

Then, he heard distant voices, moving closer, coming in his direction. Rough hands touched his face; others took hold of his left arm, rolled up his sleeve. There was a blinding light, and, for a few seconds, the rain stopped falling on him. Then, through tightly clenched eyelids, he sensed the light repositioning, pointing somewhere other than his face. He felt the prick of a needle in his arm. Soon, he felt his roiling stomach begin to subside. The rain returned, but the inner storm was moving away. He decided he was happy keeping his eyes closed. Within minutes, he soon found that he could feel no sensations, at all.

He heard the voices, again. This time they were clearer. "This is the great John Beauchamp? I expected more.", said one voice. Female, he thought. A Brit.

Then, another voice, a familiar voice, answered, "Cut him some slack. As I remember it, you were no better on your first jump."

That's David Ashby, he thought. No. Wait. Ashby's dead.

A third voice joined them. Another female. This one was a Brit, too. He was sure of it. "David? What are you doing here? After the ... ahem ... disagreement, we weren't expecting you back ... for a while."

Then, the familiar voice again. Ashby? Can't be. "I don't know why we're here. I wasn't coming here. I was taking him to Paris."

For a while, there was nothing save the sound of the rain. Then, he heard the third voice talking. Only this time, it sounded as though it was coming from very far away.

"Well. That is strange. Alright, let's get him into the house. He can recover, and we discuss how all this came to pass. David, get his shoulders. We'll each get a..."

And that is the last he knew.

Local Event - CHAPTER FOUR (of a novel)

Local Event - CHAPTER FOUR (This is still a little rough, so all critiques welcome. Anything to improve it. If you need to read the first three chapters, they are posted below, in reverse order. Thanks! Steve)

The Core

"Okay! Everybody listen up! Here's what I want." Sal shot out her directives in staccato fashion.

"Play back the visual scan; start it right after Jones kicks out the locals. I want a simultaneous audio playback of all sounds in that main room. Pump up the volume. I want all of that recorded together. Superimpose an overlay showing elapsed time to the tenth of a second."

From the moment Jenson announced the presence of someone else in the room, The Core had been humming. Where almost everyone had been immobilized by the crying FIN, they now consulted their respective consoles for information that would support or contradict Jenson's statement.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said Sal when she thought things were about ready, "I want you to observe closely how all this unfolds. I expect you to learn." Neither her words nor her tone was lost on them. From a darker area, up near the top of the tiers, came the word, "Ready". Jenson's voice, again. Leaning back in her chair, she gave attention to the screens. "OK. Let's see it."

The replay started, opening with the look the last local gave to Jones. The tell-tales hidden throughout the dead woman's apartment made it easy for everyone to see and hear everything that came next. White numbers changed rapidly on the lower right corner of the main screen. This was the first time most of the people had seen what had occurred before Jenson's discovery. Most had been dutifully manning their own consoles up until then.

Sal noted the subdued sounds coming from the screens. She knew them to be the aural detritus of her own crew going about its business. Her thoughts flickered off to the time she, herself, had been a FIN. She kicked her attention back to the screen

There.

Jones was starting to have his breakdown. Sal raised one finger in the air, getting everyone's attention. As Jones buried his face in his hands, Jenson's voice could be heard again, calling out in the twilight, with all the same urgency and excitement, only this time, it was from the playback, "He's not alone! There's someone else in that room with him!"

Jenson. Not only did it make him look good (he had been over eight feet away from his own console at that time), it made Hardiwick look bad. Part of what Jenson had observed was on her station!

Jenson's voice, again from the playback, "Look! Two pulses! Extra breath sounds! Where? Can anyone see the other person?" The recorded voice had a real-time galvanizing effect on the rest of the group. People had begun to fine-tune their various sensor arrays, doing everything possible to sensitize them to even the slightest indication of additional life in the room.

Hardiwick, possibly fearing Sal would rethink her invitation, could now be heard on the playback. "There's something wrong with the east wall. It appears to be about two feet closer than it shows on the specs." She had concluded this by comparing her research with information from Stanton's console and Bredvick's console. Sal remembered that both had appeared stricken when Hardiwick originally made her announcement.

She liked this kind of one-up-man-ship among her team. She kept her face turned toward the main screens so no one would see the grin. The screens had returned to real-time. It looked like Jones had finished his emotional breakdown. Sal wondered what would happen next. Deep inside herself, she recognized that she hadn't been this happy in a very long time.

####

Crime Scene

Even though he had managed to stop the tears within a few minutes, almost half an hour passed before Jones raised his face from his hands. Unchecked emotions had immobilized him for most of the period and worry filled the rest of it. The mood swings were happening more often now.

The first time he had broken down like this had been late at night. He'd been alone in a hotel room. He had cried uncontrollably. As surprised as he was, it wasn't without warning. For a few weeks preceding that first breakdown, he kept feeling anger pressing at the seams of his control, on the edge of exploding. Even after they were loosed, whether overwhelming sorrow, complete with meltdowns like this one, or white-hot rage, he had managed, for a while, to keep them tucked safely into the unseen corners of his life.

These . . . episodes weren't good, he knew, but he didn't know what to do about them. So, he just moved on, hoping they'd fix themselves.

Pulling himself together, he saw that the flimsies had been unaffected by the moisture. They were as dry as Austin's almost constant humidity would allow. After the strike, many a patent had been filed devising humidity resistant furniture, clothing, building materials, and, even man-made printing surfaces like these flimsies.

It was time to put aside emotions and do his job. He had some truly amazing powers of perception whenever he decided to bring them to bear. He felt the odd mental shift he had experienced so many times. Then, he began to really see the crime scene. He scanned the room, beginning with his immediate left where several small print books resided on a fold down bookcase. All were from "Vici Press", so he assumed they were inspirational in nature. Continuing around to the right, all sorts of interesting information began to come to his attention.

The desk faced a large bay window with several small, rectangular panes. The area had been set up as a window seat, and he could tell it had been used for reading. There were no curtains, blinds, or shades. Then he saw the wall switch nearby. Opaquing glass; turn off the electricity and the electrons no longer line up like little soldiers. The result was that light came through, but no one could actually see in or out. To the right of the window were four medium photos, framed, and carefully spaced along the wall about four inches apart, at about eye level, he decided, for a five-foot-two woman. He recognized Kara in each of the photos, and, in some of them, he recognized some of the well-known Vici national leadership. Kara Powers appeared to know some pretty powerful people. He made a mental note to go back and check the contents of the bookshelf.

Shifting his gaze again to the right, he concluded that the east wall was load bearing, though it had been made to appear that it was composed of distressed brick. While he watched, something strange happened. He thought he saw something flicker across the surface of the wall. He froze, watching intently. Then, there it was again, a flicker of light. Holding steady, he forced everything to slow down. This was one of the little tricks he could do. It didn't actually make time slow down, anymore than the sun actually moved across the sky every day. The best way he could account for it was to think that his mental perceptions speeded up. The effect of the process, whatever its internal function, was to make everything appear to move in slow motion. In this state, he waited what seemed like hours. Then, he saw it; stepping across the wall, diagonally from south to north, were shadows of leaves, each with its own corona of sunlight.

He released.

Standing, he strode at normal speed over to the window and looked out. Across the street was a small park situated directly in front of some sort of mini-cathedral. The tiny edifice was very narrow across its front, and situated in front of, or possibly affixed to, the large, blocky building that rose behind it. That building stretched west, up the hill toward Colorado Street (tunneling through the hill?), then on back to Lavaca Street, where the hill crested. He got the impression that the larger building might have continued down the other side of the hill, perhaps for several blocks. Maybe through the hill. The markings didn't look to be Catholic or Muslim. In fact, he didn't recognize them. Another little mystery to investigate when time allowed.

He could see that the park did, indeed, contain a tree; and, there was something behind it that, periodically, flashed a light his way. He focused. Now that he had been using his abilities, the transition was effortless and instantaneous. Jumping into view was a statue. Affixed to it were all manner of papers, pieces of fabric, some paper money, and...? Yes, there it was, a teardrop shaped crystal hung from one of the statue's gray-green fingers, tied on with a piece of fishing line. The crystal was cut with many facets. As it moved in the wind, it sometimes caught the afternoon sun, its prisms scattering the light all about the little park. As he watched, another flash rose from the tableau.

Turning back toward the east wall of the apartment, he shifted back to slowmo. Soon, he caught the same steady march of images he had seen before. He was satisfied.

Then, as he started to release, the wall appeared to undulate. Faster than he could formulate a question in his mind, the wall simply faded away. Slightly further away, now, was what appeared to be the same brick wall. That's when he saw the dead man leaning against it.

His voice betraying surprise and amazement, and, something else, Jones spoke the question filling his thoughts, "David?"

Looking a little surprised, the dead man recovered quickly, leaned out from the wall and quietly greeted him, the mildest hint of a southern accent coating his speech, "John."

The silence was palpable. The man at the wall looked slightly amused, and not a little chagrined. He noted the haggard features of the other; the look of someone who had just completed great exertion, drained of all strength.

"David? You are dead. You cannot be here. And I cannot afford to go crazy right now. Go away." The dismissal in Jones' voice seemed to say that he expected the man to disappear.

"John", said the man. "You're not crazy, but...well, you should see yourself."

A bit surprised that the man was still there, Jones said, "I'm trying to solve a murder, David!"

"Yes, John, I know why you're here."

"Did you . . . did you do it?" Jones felt that he might be losing it, again. Was he really carrying on a conversation with a ... what? ... a ghost?

The man, Jones decided, was looking less dead all the time. Appearing uncomfortable with the question and sounding a little exasperated, the man said, "No, John, I didn't kill her.”

"But you know who did."

"Maybe. Or, at least, I may know who is responsible."

"Tell me."

"I can't do that. You have to find out for yourself."

“You're obstructing justice!"

"Actually, I see myself aiding justice. In time, I expect you'll see it that way, too."

Walking quickly to the desk, Jones lifted the gun. He grasped it in a loose, two-handed grip and pointed it at the man. It felt all wrong. He looked down at his hands. They didn't seem to know where to go. It felt like he had never held a gun in his life.

Still, curling his right index finger around the trigger, the man known to his colleagues as Samuel Jones, Federal Investigator, servant of the people, spoke far more calmly than he had seconds before. "Tell me. Tell me or die."

Staring at the muzzle, and the tense grip with which his former friend held the piece, the other man said, "There is something I need to tell you. It is an answer of sorts, just not the answer to this question."

Jones was exerting enormous effort to simply maintain control. He took a couple of steps toward the man, and, despite the rage that burned within, continued to sound calm. "If it helps with this investigation, I'm all ears." The knuckles of his hands were white.

"I know where your son is."

The trigger hand spasmed. Strangely, the report from the shot was almost inaudible. What was most evident was the recoil. He sat down on the floor, hard. Though the gun was held tightly in his fists, the power of the shot lifted the muzzle to point at the ceiling. He sat there, confused by the near absence of sound, coupled with the power of the shot. A part of his mind reminded him that this weapon was not a neural disrupter. Another part wondered if those exiled to the hallway had heard the shot.

He lowered the gun and fired again.

This time, with intent, he did a better job of aiming, citing on the center of the other man's torso. The recoil put him on his back. And, still, the sound had that quality of a noise heard from a great distance. Jones lifted his head and could see that the man was again lounging against the east wall, framed by the red-orange of the approaching sunset.

Two shots. No blood.

In the face of the FIN, confusion fought with rage. Soon enough, though, that fierce power began to flow out of him. Confusion reigned. In a tired voice laced with wonder, he said, "Are you even here?"

"Oh, yes. I'm here. I was here before you came. I haven't moved from this spot for hours. I was here for the little jurisdictional dance you did with the locals."

"But, all those people...why didn't they see you?"

"Well, to them," tapping the brick behind his head, "this wall seems about two feet closer than it actually is. They saw the wall, not me."

"But, I can see you."

"That's you own fault. It's certainly not my doing. It was very interesting to observe, though. Once you decided to see, to really apply your perceptive abilities, everything in this room yielded itself to your vision, me included. You know, John, I think that's something new for you.

The gun rose again, turning its snout toward the man. Then, after a brief pause, Jones lowered it just as quickly as he had raised it.

"Why aren't you dead?" he said, sounding petulant.

"Do you mean, why didn't I die in Brazil? Or, do you mean why didn't I expire as a result of your expert marksmanship? Both will need some time to explain. As for today, I can at least address the "what". I've gotten pretty good at reading people since our Brazilian adventure. I suspected my little bombshell about the boy might push you too far. Even you can't be in control all the time. Anticipating your response, I arranged for the space just in front of the gun to be located about the center of the Chihuahua Desert. The bullets safely inserted themselves into the side of a small mountain, about 60 feet off the ground. As far as the "how" ... well, that'll have to wait until we have several uninterrupted hours. As for Brazil..."

Raising the gun once more, Jones pointed it, then, seeming to recall its lack of effectiveness, placed it on the floor and slowly came to his feet. "We will get to Brazil in a minute. Tell me about my son."

"Oh, he's OK. They're both OK."

"Both?"

"I think maybe you should sit. There's a lot to tell here."

"I can't. My butt hurts where I landed on the floor."

Smiling at this, the first real sign of the person he used to know, the man said, "Welcome home, Colonel. You wanna walk that off?" He stepped forward, extending his hand. "I know a nice park in Paris."

####

The Core

Everyone in The Core watched closely as the two men moved toward each other and clasped hands.

Then, with nothing more dramatic than something like moisture shimmering off hot asphalt, the room was empty.

An Unfinished Christmas (a memoir by Steve Orr)

I’m not certain which Christmas this was, but certainly no later than my first year in school. I seem to recall it was the Christmas before the First Grade, but the vagaries of memory prevent me from being sure. Still, imperfect memory or not, I recall much about that season. For example, I remember my mother taking my sister and me downtown so we could watch the parade the Saturday before Christmas. I have the clearest mental picture of getting out of the car and looking up to see my Dad happily waving to us from the third story window of his Chiropractic office near the corner of 7^th and Broadway. We felt so special to be able to watch everything from so far above everyone else. And, I remember the passing of Santa’s sleigh at some point, and the man himself pointing up at us, and waving, as we leaned as far out that window as adults would allow.

But, the most enduring memory of that season comes a couple days later. We went for our annual Christmas shopping night in downtown Paducah. My parents dressed us carefully (both for appearance and the weather), and put on their good clothes, as well. My Dad wore a tie; my Mother wore one of her nice dresses usually reserved for work (she was an operator at the phone company). This was a time, long gone now, when people dressed up when they went about in public. I’m not advocating for a return to those times; just commenting about how different it was from today. This was before Sears opened their two-block long (single story and L-shaped) store between 14^th and 16^th streets further up on Broadway. So, we had to go all the way downtown to do our shopping at the Paducah Dry Goods Store; four stories of merchandise that, today, would require an entire shopping mall to contain. It’s as if Linens ‘N Things, Best Buy, Toys R Us, Macy’s, Barnes and Noble, Payless Shoes, Victoria’s Secret, etc., were all merged into one store. I know; hard for us to imagine today. In those days, a town had to have a dry goods store for such things, or one had to drive to a town that did have one. Paducah was that town for about a 100 mile radius on the map.

Paducah Dry Goods was located at the corner of 4^th and Broadway, undoubtedly the coldest corner in Paducah. Because of the way Paducah was positioned against the confluence of the Ohio and Tennessee Rivers, both 4^th Street and Broadway brought cold air up from the rivers to chill us as we disembarked from the car (Dad, being a good Dad, dropped the three of us off at the store, parked the car a few blocks away, and then rejoined us somewhere inside the store.). My parents, being parents, forced us to endure shopping on each floor in turn; making our way with agonizing slowness toward all that really mattered: the fourth floor, location of toys and home of Santa’s red velvet throne.

The first time I saw the movie “A Christmas Story” (based on Jean Shepherd’s delightful semi-autobiographical stories), I was struck by how familiar it all seemed. And the more I watched the movie, the more I thought that. Finally, I realized the locations in the film looked exactly like those I grew up around. The school could easily be the one I attended as a child. Ralphie’s house was a great deal like some my relatives lived in: the yard walls and fences, the out buildings behind the houses, the streets, the neighborhoods, even the store in which Ralphie begged Santa for his BB gun (It was Paducah Dry Goods all over again!). The other thing that happened the first time I saw the film was that it triggered my memory of this particular Christmas. I clearly remember sitting on Santa’s lap and telling him something, though not what, and realizing that his beard was real. The beard convinced me he was the real thing (and I had always been a bit skeptical, even at that tender age). Eventually, after what seemed like ages, but was probably no longer than an hour –after all, we were small children—my parents bundled us up and moved us down four floors and to the front of the building. After that, things get a little hazy. I have a vibrant memory of my Mother holding my hand as the three of us stood on the curb waiting for my Dad to return with the car, to pick us up and drive us home. I remember waiting to the point that I was actually cold, so we must have been outside for longer than my Mother had expected.

My Dad never returned that night.

And, in my memory, that is the end; the three of us standing there, watching, waiting, wondering, and getting colder . . . an unfinished Christmas.

_______________________________


No, I’m not going to leave you hanging. The rest of this story is legend in my family; so I’ve heard it many, many times from parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. Everyone told it the same way, so I am fairly certain I have it right.

My Dad walked one block down 4^th Street to Jefferson. He crossed Jefferson and turned left, walking toward 5^th. He had parked the car on Jefferson just beyond the 5^th Street intersection. He recalled being a little concerned because there was someone walking directly behind him as he made his way along the sidewalk.

He never made it to the car.

The way Dad told it, he heard the rising and falling sing-song wail of an ambulance’s siren (they had sirens in those days instead of the blatting honking used today) coming from somewhere behind him. He did not feel the need to look back because, based on his hearing, he expected it to pass him soon. Besides, he was hurrying to his own car, first because it was cold, and second because he was concerned about the footsteps so close behind him.

The next thing my dad knew, he was face down on the sidewalk and could feel someone lying on top of him. And then, blackness.

And that was it … until the next day when he awoke to hear someone whistling. He opened his eyes and quickly realized he was in a hospital bed. While trying to sort out his disorientation, he realized the whistling had stopped. A man, who was mostly dressed and was knotting his tie, stepped into his view and said, “Oh, good! You’re awake. I’ll call the nurse.” I don’t know the particulars of the remainder of their conversation, only that he explained to Dad what had happened the night before. There had, indeed, been an ambulance, and as it proceeded along Jefferson and through the intersection at 4^th Street (on its way to Western Baptist Hospital … way, way out at 25^th and Broadway), it was struck by a car moving swiftly along 4^th Street that failed to yield to the sounds of the siren, sailing through the intersection at Jefferson.

As a result, the ambulance was driven up onto the sidewalk where it struck the man who was walking so closely behind my Dad, who then flattened my Dad onto the sidewalk. My dad was told he was very lucky the man had absorbed most of the impact from the ambulance, and that he formed a barrier between Dad and the bottom of the ambulance. Dad was told he undoubtedly would have been killed had the man not been right behind him when the ambulance struck. Dad lost his two front teeth. The mysterious man did not survive his encounter with the ambulance.

When he had finished filling Dad in on all these details, Dad asked the guy how he knew all of this. He said, “Oh, I was the guy in the back of the ambulance!”

For the rest of his life, every time the holidays rolled around, my Dad annoyingly sang “All I want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth.” And while we quickly grew tired of the song, we never tired of hearing the story of that Christmas when Dad left us standing at the curb in front of the Paducah Dry goods store; standing, waiting, getting a bit colder with each passing minute, expectantly watching for him to appear.

A Mask for Nils Jorgenson

A MASK FOR NILS JORGENSON (a short story)

By Steve Orr

"Where is the justice of political power if it executes the murderer and jails the plunderer, and then itself marches upon neighboring lands, killing thousands and pillaging the very hills?"

Kahlil Gibran, 'The Voice of the Poet'

Nils was hurrying down the middle of the street. Fear gripped him. It was night, yet he could see everything clearly. There were no vehicles, no people. All he could hear was the sound of his own footfalls. Nothing else moved.

To his right was the Q Street entrance to the Metro. He realized he was near DuPont Circle. He seemed to be headed toward Adams Morgan. Beyond that, he was unable to determine what was happening. He had no control, his legs being drawn along despite his insistence they stop.

He wondered why he was here. He hadn't lived in Adams Morgan since before The Strike. Doubly mysterious because he should not have been outside, at all. He had not been outside in over fifteen years.

This was not his world. There were no empty, darkened streets in his life. His world consisted of his subterranean apartment, his chambers in the United States Supreme Court, and the lone pedestrian tunnel that connected them. Not only did he restrict himself to these environs, he couldn't conceive of the circumstances that would get him to go beyond them.

His social interactions rarely extended beyond his clerk, his fellow justices, and the two Secret Service agents assigned to protect him. The agents, though never very far away, didn't live with him. He shared his home, such as it was, with one very hardy, leafy green plant and a few fish in an oversized aquarium. It was a comfortable, predictable, and, of greatest importance to Nils, safe life.

Suddenly, he was no longer on the street; he was walking up a narrow stairwell. Then he was walking through an apartment door. Across the dimly lit room, her back to him, was a tall, nicely shaped woman. She held aside a thick, dark, curtain and was peering out the window. He tried to turn away before she realized he was there, but his fear immobilized him. She released the curtain and turned toward him, her face shifting from worry into relief. It was Maggie.

****

He woke drenched in perspiration; a pungent, almost sickly, odor coming off his body. His skin was hot. Fear washed through him in waves. His eyes darted about the darkened room seeking something familiar. Where was he? What was this place? Who was he? He couldn't remember who he was!

Inside his head a calm voice (not his own voice, but who's he couldn't say) spoke from his memory, "You are Nils Jorgenson, Supreme Court Justice. This is your home." Just like that, everything clicked into place. He was home.

As calm began to seep in around the edges, the thought came to him that he might have cried out. He supposed he would know for sure if one of his guardians showed up.

It was the dream. Again. The weird, powerless dream, followed by the frightening disorientation. How many times had it happened in the past couple of months? Four? Six times?

Sitting on the side of the bed, he did a slow count to ten, giving his low blood pressure a chance to catch up. It was not yet three AM, but he knew he would not be able to go back to sleep. He said, "Lights," and stood up as the room began to incrementally adjust its illumination levels toward his pre-selected preference: "West Texas Morning."

He sat back down, immediately, feeling very light headed, and wondered if he might have to start counting to fifteen. He didn't want anyone to see him this way, not even one of the agents. After a few more seconds he stood again and, on steadier legs, headed directly to the bathroom.

A long, hot shower later, he wrapped himself in an oversized terry-cloth robe and stepped into the kitchen. He found Philip waiting for him. Philip nodded toward a cup sitting on the bar. A wisp of steam rose from it, followed by the unmistakable fragrance of Irish Breakfast tea.

****

It was not the best of ways to start a day, especially not this particular day. The dream haunted him, continued to nag at him well into the afternoon. That he had dreamed about something he had been considering doing -- going outside -- made him nervous. He found it difficult enough to contemplate when he was awake, when he could exercise control over the terrors his mind conjured up.

The dream frightened him.

He lived his life insulated by the law and pillowed by memories. He liked his life, its simplicity and its safety. The thought that he might lose it all loomed menacingly, an unspoken threat.

The presence of a stranger in his chambers did nothing to dispel the lingering malaise.

Nils looked up from the contract and into the expectant eyes of the salesman. "That's it?" he asked.

"That's it," said the salesman.

"I'm surprised. It sounds a bit . . . unprotected, maybe even dangerous."

"Well, Your Honor, we designed it that way; 'unprotected', I mean."

"But, doesn't that put your clients at risk?"

"At risk? Well, yes sir, of course. But in danger? Not really. Yes, there's a quality of openness about the entire experience. But that is exactly what most of our clients are seeking. How else could they achieve their goals? And, sir, no disrespect intended, but do you know a better way to accomplish it?"

Nils didn't respond.

The salesman stopped talking.

In the lengthening silence, Nils got the idea the salesman suspected he had said too much, maybe queered the deal. Had he queered the deal? Nils was unsure. He leaned back, and the chair protested with a squeaky twanging of its springs.

Despite the fact that he had initiated this meeting, Nils found himself unwilling to engage. He kept drifting away from the discussion, looking at the items all about him, indulging the memories they triggered. It was a room filled with memories. Cherished law books were ensconced behind the glass doors of five bookcases. His personal copy of the Holy Scriptures lay to the left of the blotter, within easy reach. The brief for Willis v. Abilene, Texas Independent School District lay pinned to the mahogany desk by an oversized gavel. It was the thirty-seventh gavel he had received since becoming a judge. The rest were at home in a box. He couldn't bring himself to throw any of them out.

The photo of dear, sweet Maggie hung in its place of honor, its silver frame smudged with his fingerprints. Her great-grandmother's brocaded loveseat filled in the corner farthest from the door, velvet ropes blocking it from potentially devastating derrieres. Generations earlier, it was the sole place to sit in the small room where Maggie's great-grandmother allowed Maggie's great-grandfather to smoke his cigars. Nils knew that if he were to get up and walk over to it, he would be able to smell the faint but distinct aroma of Kentucky broadleaf.

Each thing was its familiar self, in its proper place, but, in that moment, all of it looked foreign and strange.

He swiveled the chair, setting its back to the room and to the salesman. He faced the window, the newest version of the bulletproofed Lex-a-wall material. It had been replaced five times since he had first occupied the office, each version stronger and safer than its predecessor. Its presence gave Nils a feeling of comfort. It allowed him to view some of the outside world without fear.

He peered out it at a Washington, DC, lightly dusted in white. It was not a pure white, nor the 'snow white' of his youth. There was a slight gray cast to it, looking a lot like the color his once blond locks had become. Today's storm had not really gotten underway just yet, so he could still see the rear of the Capitol Building, as well as the Jefferson Building and the Adams Building, two of the group that housed the Library of Congress. The wind blew the snow at an angle, sliding across his view in a southeasterly direction. Nils marveled at it, at how it appeared to be so lacey and delicate, at its very existence.

Snow in May. Almost twenty years and I'm still not used to it. I miss Spring. I miss the Cherry Blossoms popping out in early April. I miss March coming 'in like a lion'. I miss . . . .

A memory flooded in: old Mr. Acker, the de facto 'keeper' of himself and two dozen other law clerks at Hirae & Dunleavy, LP. It was a memory from early in his career and early in the new millennium. They were in a ground-floor room they called 'the dungeon', though not in front of the partners. Mr. Acker was perched on his corner platform -- two steps up from the rest of the floor with barely enough room for the desk. It was really just a landing at the tail end of the back stairs, not a platform at all. Legend had it that Mr. Acker had been sent down to the dungeon when he had steadfastly ignored all hints that he should retire.

Whatever the truth, he had commandeered the only high ground available and had used the slight elevation to great advantage, intimidating his charges at every opportunity. In Nils' memory, Mr. Acker was leaning back in his swivel chair and gazing out the two windows that met in his corner. It was the same every March. The old guy would sit for hours, his back to the rest of the room, watching as passersby fought with the blustery winds that crossed swords at the corner of 'G' and 17th Street, NW. Mr. Acker gave special attention to the females who, mostly, lost the battle, their dignity blown skyward along with their skirts. Nils' desk was near enough to hear the old gentlemen chuckle from time to time, saying, "I love dress up day."

Forcing his thoughts back to the present, Nils reflected that just about every day, now, would qualify for one of Mr. Acker's 'dress up' days. Of course, few women wore dresses outside anymore. Even July, while much warmer than March, was still fairly breezy. And now here he was in May, giving serious consideration to walking the streets of DC, himself. While the wind would certainly be a consideration, and the cold even more so, Nils' greatest concerns lay not with what he would encounter outside, weather or otherwise. No. He could prepare for the 'whats'. <>

This made him think of Maggie and, as he had almost every day since it happened, The Strike. Almost twenty years ago, thousands of meteorites, ranging in size from pebble to boulder, had tagged the Earth. Fear and frustration mounted with each passing hour, as the rock swarm moved inexorably closer to planetfall. Believing themselves doomed, millions of people across the globe had rampaged, visiting death and destruction on everything and everyone they came into contact with. For a while, insanity reigned on the Earth. In the midst of all that, Maggie's death was insignificant to all but Nils.

The Strike was not the extinction level event everyone had feared. Even though a few cities lay directly in the path of some larger stones, more people died in the anarchy than did as a direct result of individual meteorites. What followed soonest -- high levels of particulate in the air, the colder weather -- was only the beginning of the changes visited upon the Earth by The Strike.

The change in Nils, however, was immediate and dramatic. Nothing could ever replace Maggie in his heart, but the law replaced her in his life. He could not do anything about death from the sky, but he knew what to do about anarchy. In his grief, he went from liberal to archconservative, championing law and order above all else. A federal judge is in a unique position to impose his philosophies on the populace. It didn't take long for like-minded political leaders to take notice. After that, his rise on the bench was rapid.

Many changes could be traced back to that long night almost two decades ago. And now, more changes were in the offing, changes in the law. Maybe they weren't as physically devastating as those brought on by The Strike, but the effects might be just as bad. A part of him felt a great urgency. Another part of him was afraid. His critics claimed his decisions as a federal judge had increased government control at the expense of individual freedoms. Nils thought that too simplistic, but also recognized the essential truth in the claim.

****

Philip paced up and down a short side corridor near Nils' office. Andrew remained still.

"He's an old man. It was probably just indigestion," said Andrew.

"No. There's something not right about this. I checked the log. I went last week on the same day and at the same ungodly hour."

"So, he eats the same thing the night before, then it takes a few hours to hit. I still think it's just a bad dream brought on by indigestion."

"I told you I checked the log. I know you went the same day and hour the week before that. I also noted that you only entered the date and time. Come on, Andrew, spill. How many times has he done this?"

Andrew sighed, giving up. "All right. He did the same thing the week before that. But, that's it. Today makes four." Looking away, he mumbled, "I still think it's just a coincidence."

"I heard that. Sometimes I wonder if you really listen to me. I checked the log, Andrew. I checked his meals, his medications, what he watched on holovision before retiring, and how many times he urinated before finally going to sleep. He must have a bladder the size of a pea."

Andrew laughed at that, saying, "Hey! Get it? Pea? You made a pun."

Philip said nothing. He did narrow his eyes, though, and that's what tipped Andrew to just how serious he was. When Philip narrowed his eyes, he meant business.

"All right, all right. I see your point. What do we need to do?"

****

He decided he wasn't ready. He needed more time.

Swinging back around, the sleeves of his robe making a quiet flapping sound, Nils fixed the salesman with his most intimidating look, one he had learned from Mr. Acker. "I'm not satisfied with these arrangements." He gestured at the contract that lay between them on the massive desk.

"There will have to be several significant changes before I will even consider hiring your firm."

The salesman was unfazed. "All right. What changes would you like to make?"

All right, yourself. I'll nip this in the bud.

"The security arrangements are entirely insufficient; too much risk for me. First, I want double the number of proposed field personnel shadowing me. I cannot be irresponsible, no matter how much I want to do this. . . tour. Second, I want some kind of distress signal device in case I need to abort. And don't tell me any fairy tales about signals being jammed by particulate in the air.

"Third, I've changed my mind about starting from here; too easy for someone to figure out what I'm up to. If I'm going to do this, properly, I will have to find a way to do it without Secret Service coverage. I don't want media attention, either.

"Fourth, no electronic monitoring; no record of any kind, or this entire exercise could turn out to be a waste. That's it. Get back to me with . . ."

"Done," said the salesman.

Nils was shocked. Much work, and not a little haggling, had gone into producing the original contract. He figured the deal would collapse with his 'eleventh hour' demands; that he would, at the very least, get a reprieve; the decision point forestalled. He had thought to send the man away.

"I'm not willing to spend more money. The proposed fee has to remain as is."

There. That ought to bring a halt to things.

The salesman was the epitome of calm. "No problem."

Now Nils was beginning to feel trapped. "How can you say that? How can you blithely agree to my demands? You can't have that kind of authority." Picking up the contract, Nils squinted at the signature line. The scrawl was unreadable. "You would need to confer with the owner; that's whose name appears on this contract."

The salesman smiled. It was a nice smile. "Your Honor, I am the owner."

"What?!"

"Sir, again with respect, I don't usually involve myself in the day-to-day activities of my companies. But no one of your . . . stature has ever contacted Revels for a mask. Once I knew a Supreme Court Justice had called for a fitting . . . well, that alone would have gotten my attention."

Nils interrupted. "How could you have known? I never told anyone at Revels that I was a Supreme Court Justice. I'm not the only Nils Jorgenson. I happen to know there are several."

"That's true, sir. But you're the only Nils Jorgenson who would be calling from a government number in Washington, DC."

Nils blinked. That confirmed something he had suspected from the beginning; he wasn't really very good at Cloak & Dagger.

The man continued. "Your specifications were a little different from our normal trade, but not without precedence. Most of our products are designed to be disposable; party masks, really. The technologies involved are a bit complex, but I doubt you care about that, anyway. Generally, our masks are used for a few hours and then discarded. The deposit is substantial enough that most people return the hardware for a refund. But, even if they don't, we almost always get them back. There are even a couple of street people who have made a little cottage industry out of redeeming our masks for the deposit. There's always someone out there who wants that money.

"What I doubt you know is that we've done maskings for CEOs, Board Chairs, business owners and the like. A person wakes up one morning and decides he or she wants to know what's really going on out at the manufacturing plant. We can give them the means to disguise themselves as one of their own workers. It can be a very effective management tool."

"Wouldn't that be an illegal use of technology," asked Nils?

"I suppose it would seem that way." He paused, leaning closer, making certain he had Nils' eyes, " You know," the man confided, "my troops were concerned you might be running some sort of sting on them, trying to catch them breaking the law."

He continued to look at Nils as if expecting a reaction. Finally, he leaned back. "A careful examination would reveal that the laws allow the owners of a business to audit their holdings, to conduct an analysis of security, to ensure their protection from criminals, whether from without or from within. When they use one of our masks to disguise themselves, they're only using it on themselves. It's legal -- well, except in Massachusetts.

"But you know all that, don't you, sir? I doubt there's anything I could tell you about the technology laws you don't already know. You wrote the majority opinion making them all constitutional."

Silence hung between them. Nils looked away.

After a time, the man resumed. "Initially, your requests looked something like one of our executive packages. So, at first, I remained in the background. I flagged the account so I would receive updates as my Revels staff clarified your needs.

"But when you specified the mask had to be 'fully functional in current meteorological conditions,' I began to wonder just what it was you were up to. Looking back over the discussions you had with my staff, I thought I saw a pattern emerging. You told them you were going to 'tour', but you wouldn't say where the mask was to be used. Then, you wanted shadows available for your 'tour', still without giving details as to dates, locations, etc. You insisted that your 'tour' must begin from this building. Then, you capped all that with the 'meteorological conditions' requirement.

"After that, I set blocks on your account, forcing all your calls to my personal communicator. The last three conversations you had with Revels were actually with me. So, don't be so surprised to find the owner of Revels sitting here in your office. You see, I know what you're going to do, sir."

Nils stared at the man, fear gripping him, one thought pounding away inside his head.

If this man has figured it out, who else has?

****

30 minutes later:

The salesman strode confidently down the pedestrian tunnel. To anyone that took the time to look, he appeared to be a man who had closed an important sale. Entering the parking chamber, he moved through a cluster of vehicles parked near the door, then headed toward one parked all by itself on the far side.

When he reached it, he pulled his keys from his pocket and, with apparent chagrin, dropped several coins in the process. Reaching under the vehicle as if to retrieve some of the errant currency, he, instead, left something the size and shape of a green pea. He stood up, looking around for the other coins. These had traveled to various spots, the nearest no closer than a dozen feet. He picked up two of them, and was stooping for the third, when there was a soundless flash of light from beneath his own conveyance. The light was so pale as to be unnoticeable unless someone was looking directly at it. Or, watching for the brief shadows it cast. He appeared to pay no attention to it, continuing to move away, searching for and retrieving coins for the better part of five minutes.

Finally, coins back where they belonged, he returned to his conveyance and climbed in. Pulling his vehicle's chips from the thickly leaded compartment beneath the passenger seat, he inserted them into their respective slots. If anyone had bugged the car . . . he just hoped the mini-pulse had done its job. He certainly didn't want anyone overhearing this conversation. If it worked the way he'd been told, it would have destroyed the capability of any surveillance devices within a six-foot radius.

He programmed his destination into the console, again hoping that things had gone as promised in the briefing. He didn't really know if the leaded compartment had protected the chips from the pulse until he felt the faint vibration of the electric engine starting. He was somewhat of a cynic when it came to tech, and more so with this particular tech. He was happy to be proved wrong. As the car drove itself away from the Supreme Court Building and into the main tunnel, he activated his personal communicator.

"Hello?" asked the disembodied voice.

"Hey. It's me."

"How did it go?"

"You were right about his fear level. I had to tell him I knew what he was planning. Oh! And I had to tell him I was you."

He paused to see if there was any comment. But there was only silence from the other end.

"I went over everything with him, just like you laid it out."

"Do you think he will come?"

"I wish I could tell you that I knew for sure. He's hard to read. I just don't know."

"If we don't get him this way, I'm not sure what we can do. We really need him to come. So much hinges on him."

"I know. It's a shame I couldn't just tell him."

"Too risky. Well, come on in. Everything else is in place, ready to activate. All we can do now is wait. And, hope."

Eight days later:

The hydrogen-powered vehicle glided smoothly along the floor of the tunnel. Though alone in the back seat, with an abundance of room, Nils could not seem to find a comfortable position. To make matters worse, the physical discomfort was interfering with his attempts to distract himself.

He worried that the two Secret Service agents in the front seats would pick up on his fear. He had known them for over ten years. They had been assigned to him as a team and had remained so. Once he got over the idea of having bodyguards, he had come to enjoy their company, to even like them. But he always kept in mind something Allan Pinkerton, the founder of the Secret Service, had said; 'The end justifies the means, if the end is justice.' Pinkerton's imprint had never left the Secret Service, and these two men epitomized that philosophy. Nils knew they would take him right back to his apartment, or somewhere much worse, if they even suspected what he was doing.

The realization spurred him. He would have to tell the lie. Nils hated lies, and, understandably, had a very low opinion of liars. To think that he would have to count himself among them was almost more than he could take. But he knew he wasn't going to be able to keep his agitated state hidden much longer.

His first attempt to distract himself, people-watching, had failed. Nils hadn't seen a single pedestrian. In his anxiety, he had forgotten that the National Sunday Law required all businesses be closed on the first day of the week. It was highly unlikely he would see anyone walking through this section of the tunnels.

After that, he tried to occupy his thoughts elsewhere, anywhere. Finally, he decided to think about the tunnels. This one, with its two stories of shops and businesses, and the occasional walkway arching overhead, had always reminded Nils of the shopping malls of his youth. Except, of course, for the two main differences; this one had five drive lanes running down the middle of it, and it was completely sealed off from the outside. Even the lighting was artificial.

"Say, fellows, do you know the history of these tunnels?" Without waiting for a reply, Nils plowed ahead. He thought his voice sounded strained, but couldn't stop himself.

"Legend has it that the first 'official' tunnel constructed in the nation's capitol, then just plain Washington City, was created at the instigation of Allan Pinkerton, himself. Do they teach you fellows that in the Secret Service? Supposedly, Pinkerton had insisted that there needed to be a secure passage from the White House should President Lincoln become endangered while in residence.

"Each successive President was briefed on the tunnel's existence; some used it and some didn't. Eventually, Nixon used it to give the Secret Service the slip one evening when he decided to visit with a group of students who were protesting the Vietnam War on the Mall. Using the Service's own tunnel to sneak away from them! Now, that is irony, isn't it?

"Wait. Let me back up a bit. More tunnels were constructed in World War II. Washington, DC was considered a military target by the Axis powers in much the same way the Allies regarded Tokyo or Berlin. The city was heavily fortified, from submarine nets in the Potomac to machine gun emplacements on the White House roof. The digging of several tunnels hardly rated notice. The government intended, literally, to go underground if Germany's V-2 rockets ever made it to DC.

"Until then, though, the new tunnels were off limits. FDR felt, rightly so in my own opinion, that the very use of the tunnels would be enough to reveal their existence to the enemy.

"That all changed after FDR's death. Such secrecy lost its importance upon the arrival of the atomic age. Who wouldn't have underground tunnels in the face of potential nuclear attack? Suddenly, what really mattered was depth. The tunnel system was extended well beyond the confines of the District of Columbia, some as far as the Appalachian Mountain range.”

Nils could see the two agents making eye contact with each other via sidelong glances. He knew he should stop chattering on like he this, but seemed unable to bring himself under control.

"For all of that, though, it was just luck that preserved DC during The Strike. A few degrees to the east, a few degrees to the north, and the Balcones Fault Strike could just as easily have been the Potomac Strike. Then it would have been DC under water instead of Houston.

"After The Strike, while everyone was still under martial law, the Army Corps of Engineers designed and built today's mega-tunnels. These massive underground thoroughfares connected all of the existing tunnels, the Metro System, and the underground complexes into one enormous subterranean city."

"You probably already know all this, don't you? Did you know that, unofficially, everyone who worked in DC was encouraged to live in DC? The thinking went something like this: working people lived inside; only the homeless, criminals, and those on welfare lived outside. Exits from the tunnel system came to be treated, eventually, like border checkpoints."

Why was he talking about the outside? Why couldn't he just make himself shut up? It only mattered if you were going outside, and by the time the checkpoints went up, Nils had decided that, without Maggie, the outside held nothing for him. When had that logical decision changed over to fear?

Abruptly, Nils stopped talking and started counting the banks of mercury lamps recessed into the tunnel ceiling. He only counted the lit ones, which, on a Sunday, meant about every third bank.

Unfortunately, light-counting wasn't much more effective than people-watching. He usually lost count somewhere around nine. And that's when the panic would rise up and almost overwhelm him.

After losing count the third time, he just quit trying. He would have to tell the lie Mr. Duval had given him.

"Philip? Andrew? There's something I need to tell you."

The two agents looked at each other. Neither looked at him. Philip keyed a series of commands into the console. The vehicle pulled obediently into the far right lane and rolled smoothly to a stop. The right front edge aligned itself perfectly with a NO PARKING sign.

"Perimeter on?" asked Andrew.

"Perimeter on," confirmed Philip.

They swiveled their seats to face him.

"Okay, Your Honor," said Andrew, "Let's have it. We can only sit like this for a few minutes before central command calls to ask why we've stopped."

Nils recognized this as a courtesy, and it confirmed his suspicions. They had seen through his attempts at subterfuge. But they were going to give him a chance to explain before doing anything about it. Their years of being together were worth something, but perhaps not too much. Nils had thought it sheer fantasy when Mr. Duval had suggested this very situation might arise. It was beginning to look like the man had thought of everything.

Hating himself for doing it, he told them the lie.

"You have probably noticed that I am a bit . . . umm, that is . . . umm, well, not myself." Neither spoke, but he could see the affirmation in their eyes.

"I told you that I was going to visit an old friend, today. Well, that's not exactly the truth."

At this the two agents exchanged a glance. Nils had no doubts about what was communicated in that look. Andrew half turned back toward the front, his right hand drifting toward the console.

Nils hurried on, knowing he was almost out of time.

"This friend, she's, well . . . umm, BTS, she was . . . What I'm trying to say . . . Oh! I'm just no good at this."

Philip placed his left hand on Nils' knee. It was a gesture of kindness, and it almost undid him.

He took a deep breath and blurted it out.

"Before The Strike, she and I were . . . we had a . . . thing."

If Nils hadn't already been filled with fear, their reactions would have been comical. From a state of near granite, their faces slowly morphed into astonishment, eyes rounded, mouths open. Then, to Nils' utter amazement both men started laughing. And they kept on laughing for several minutes.

Nils found himself growing cross. It didn't seem so funny to him. Why, it could be true. Just how old did they think he was?

Finally, the two of them were able to bring themselves back under control. Both of them, however, retained their grins. Philip looked at him and said, kindly, "You'll be fine, Your Honor. Don't worry. It's just like falling off a bicycle -- you never forget how."

Andrew had already faced forward and was disengaging the perimeter guard. Still, Nils could hear him mutter, "You dawg!"

Philip patted his knee one more time before turning his own seat back to face forward. Soon, they were on their way, again. Nils was amazed! It had worked far better than he had imagined.

Not another word was spoken until, having traveled down a side tunnel for about 15 minutes, the vehicle once again came to a stop.

Nils looked about, puzzled. The tunnel dead-ended just beyond their conveyance. An unmarked door was set into the wall there.

Philip looked back over his shoulder and saw the uncertainty in Nil's face. "We're here, Your Honor. Welcome to the Watergate Hotel."

#############

Nils had never been in the Watergate Hotel. He was a child when Nixon’s ‘plumbers’ were caught burgling the Democrats there, too young to ever have any personal remembrance of those events. What he did know came from his own research after the salesman had left his office eleven days ago. Understanding that, somehow, Mr. Duval planned to use this place as a cover, Nils had checked it out.

Surprisingly, there was very little information available. He learned that it was a resident hotel for people with plenty of money. There was no ‘rent control’ space available in the Watergate. Just that one piece of information gave Nils a certain increased confidence. These people had to have money or they couldn’t have afforded to lease space here.

The door before them opened directly into an elevator; they entered and rode up.

Emerging onto the 11th floor, they walked along the hallway with Andrew taking the lead and Philip trailing behind Nils. Stopping at the apartment number Nils had had been given, Philip knocked twice. From inside, Nils heard a woman's voice, muffled by the thickness of the door, say, "Come in."

Philip took up a position just to the right of the door while Andrew stepped between the door and Nils. He turned the knob and pushed the door open, slowly. For a few seconds, he just filled the doorway, surveying the room that lay beyond. Once satisfied, he entered the room and stepped to the right.

When Andrew stepped aside, Nils was surprised to realize the room looked familiar. But, that wasn’t possible.

Looking across the room, he saw a woman standing at the window, her back to them.

It was the dream!

She turned and looked at them, concern clearly etched on her face. Seams and fissures appeared in the air before him. In no time at all, the scene looked just like one of the puzzles Nils had worked on as a child. Little pieces of the puzzle fell away, slowly at first, a blank whiteness showing through where they had been. More and more of them fell away, until Nils felt his knees buckle. Then he, too, was, falling away with all those little puzzle pieces, following them into the all-consuming white.

####

In the dream, he was on a bed, but not his own. He knew this because his head was on a down pillow. He also knew this because he could see some of the room. It wasn't his. Finally, if none of that had been convincing, he would have known because, from the corner of his vision, he could see a window with daylight streaming through the translucent curtains. There were no windows in his private quarters. That window would have worried him, normally, but the dream gave him no time for that. Before he could begin to think about it, things started happening. First, Philip and Andrew stepped into view. They both looked concerned. Together, they turned and spoke to someone else.

"Phone?" they asked in unison.

He heard a woman say, "In the kitchen." Nils couldn't think that voice could belong to anyone but his beloved Maggie. He thought, this is a cruel dream.

Andrew and Philip turned back to look at him. They appeared to be unable to decide what to do. Finally, the woman (Maggie!) said, "Go on, the both of you. There's nothing you can do for him. Make you calls. I'll watch him until you can get someone to come take a look at him."

Neither of the agents moved. For a few seconds, the dream was silent. Then Andrew said too Philip, "Go. I'll stay." Relief flooded Philip's face. In fact, everyone looked so relieved that Nils wanted to reach out and pat them, tell them everything would be all right. But the dream wouldn't let him move or talk.

Philip turned and left his field of view. As strange as the dream had been, it got even stranger after Philip departed. Seconds after he left, Nils saw the young woman (Maggie?) step to the window and draw another curtain across it. After that, the only light in the room came from the open doorway.

The room then darkened even more. As he heard the sound of the door shutting, the last of the light left.

Shortly -- or so it seemed; dream time is so different -- light reappeared, but from a different source. At first Nils thought a lamp had been turned on, but quickly abandoned the thought. A portion of an inside wall, the wall that formed the other piece of the corner near the window, was moving. Light flooded in around its edges. Nils was amazed to see it. The bar of light at the top of the wall grew larger faster than on the sides. It was as if the entire wall was hinged at the bottom. As it came fully open, Nils caught a glimpse of another room beyond. It seemed to be a hospital room.

Before he could ruminate on this, the opening filled with people, military looking people. There were half a dozen of them and, to Nils' untrained eye, they appeared to be heavily armed. One of them, a woman, used hand signals to direct the others. Nils thought of the poem where Santa Claus is discovered near the Christmas tree; "Without a word, he went right to work" or something like that. Nils almost laughed out loud, but found the dream wouldn't let him.

And the dream wasn't through with him, yet. Once the . . . soldiers? . . . had stationed themselves in a semi-circle around the opening, someone else stepped through.

It was him.

But before he could wonder why he was watching himself in the dream, his other self stepped over to the bed and looked down at Nils. A smile appeared on the other Nils' face. Nils felt there was a considerable affection for him in that expression. As if to underscore this thought, the other Nils placed his hand on Nil's face and said, "Thank you. Thank you so much! You've made all the difference."

This new Nils began to take off his clothes. At the same time, Nils realized his own clothing was being removed. Soon, he watched the new Nils, with the help of Andrew, dress in his own clothes. Nils shivered. He couldn't decide if it was from being naked or from the bizarre scene before him.

While Andrew, Maggie, the soldiers, and of course Nils, looked on, the other Nils, now looking exactly like Nils right down to the shoes, moved to the closed door, opened it, stepped through and closed it behind him. At that, the dream began to loose its hold on Nils. He was slipping back into the darkness when he felt himself being lifted off the bed.

#######

Voices woke him.

He hadn't wanted to wake. In fact, he felt most comfortable just lying there with his eyes closed. He was a little perturbed at the voices for waking him, so he decided he would just lay there. Maybe if they didn't know he was awake, they would go away.

"You have a question, Colonel?"

"Doc, I'm full of questions. Was the surgery successful? Are you sure you removed all the tech from his skull? Will he remember who he is? Is he going to be all right?"

"I think you mean to ask, 'Will there be any damaging evidence left?'; 'When can I interrogate him?' and 'Can I redeploy him?'"

"Now, Doc, there's no reason to be cynical. Sure, I want to know all those things. And more. But I care about the guy, too."

"If you really cared about him, you would never have agreed to this."

He started drifting away again. The one called “Colonel” said something in response to the one called “doc,” but he just couldn’t hold on to what they were saying. His last thought was to wonder at how much the Colonel sounded like Maggie.

#######

He woke again. When he tried to sit up, he discovered he could not. Above him he could see a ceiling, but it seemed very far away. There was a sort of square grate set into a portion of the ceiling, and he thought it might cover a light fixture; but if so, then the light was not switched on. From the corners of his eyes, he could see tubular metal rails fencing him in from both sides.

A hospital bed?

He felt, without really knowing, that he must be in a hospital or medical facility of some kind. If only he could raise his head. Suddenly he was overwhelmed with an unassailable certainty that he was paralyzed. Panic surged through him and he commanded his body … Flee! Run! Go! But, it just lay there. He was starting to really lose it when, in amongst all the chaos clamoring in his brain, he realized the back of his left hand was touching something.

Can you feel things if you’re paralyzed?

He tried to move just that hand. Had the feeling changed a bit? He tried again. This time he was sure; he was putting increased pressure on the object. He was moving his hand. He felt a wave of relief pass through him.

But the energy needed to do even this minor a task was more than he could sustain, and he found he could not muster the strength to keep his eyes open. He began to drift again. He heard what was surely the sounds of a door opening, followed by soft footfalls. Someone was very near him, but he could not speak or move; the herculean efforts of a few moments ago had drained him. He heard a second person walk into the room.

“Doc?”

“Nothing to worry about. He just needs some adjustment in the sedative level, which is not unexpected. With this kind of surgery, following what was already done to him (Nils was sure he heard disapproval in that phrase), we are severely limited in the drugs we can use. The stronger ones are contra-indicated. Still, it may be a good sign.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he is trying to fight the sedative, it is a signal of mental effort, maybe some returning strength; in other words, he may be exerting his will. And that … that would be good news indeed.”

There was more. The other person, the one that sounded like Maggie, said something and the “doc” person responded, but he could not follow what they were saying. They said words; he recognized them as words, but could assign no meaning to them; could just not make the words arrange themselves in any sensible pattern. Then the darkness took him.

# # # # # #

He was sitting in a meadow, grasses and wildflowers stretching out in every direction, broken only by a small grove of trees a short distance away. Far off to his left, at the horizon, he could see the barest hint of a mountain range. More of a thin smudge between earth and sky, but he thought it must be mountains. It was a bright day, but no sun was visible; and no clouds, just blue sky. In a way, it was familiar to him, but not like he had been here before; more like something he had once seen on a postcard, or in a book, or maybe in a travel video.

He sat for a few moments, looking, listening. Nothing moved; and, except that of a slight breeze riffling through the trees, grasses, and flowers, nothing made a sound. He was at peace.

There was no way to measure time, but it seemed he sat like that for a long while.

Then, from far off to his right, he heard a sound; he could not decide what the sound was, but noted that it didn’t stop. But when he looked in the direction of the sound, he could see nothing but the endless meadow. And while he continued to look, he formed the impression that the sound was growing louder, though that wasn’t the right word for the sound. How do you describe a sound that is almost silent and then becomes less almost silent? Still, the longer he listened, the more certain he was the sound was increasing in volume.

He peered into the distance; surely he would see something. But there was nothing but the sound. Yes, it definitely was growing louder. Finally, he decided the sound was like a buzz. He wondered if it might the sound of some insect. With that thought, he refocused his vision to the nearground, thinking that if it was an insect, then it would be close by; because, now, the sound was definitely sounding not just louder, but closer as well.

He stood up. And in doing so, he was surprised to realize he was wearing his robes of office. How odd. But even that was little distraction from his concentration on the sound. It was sounding less like a buzz and more like a … what? More like a …

And then he saw movement. Way off. He could see only the tiniest of motions, but knew with a certainty that something, the something making the sound, was moving toward him. Fast.

Suddenly, he was afraid. Remembering the trees, he trotted over to them, marveling in one corner of this thoughts at how spry he felt; how energized. It was almost like he was 20 years younger. All of the aches and pains of his aging were gone. He felt strong. All of this passing quickly through his mind as he went from trotting to out right running, knowing somehow that he must reach the grove before the – whatever it was – reached him.

As he entered the shade of the grove, he realized the tenor of the sound had changed, or maybe just being closer had made it so he could now recognize it. The sound was a yell; a coarse, ragged, sustained shout of anger, or maybe of madness. He looked about for something to use as a weapon.

Picking up a branch, like a baseball bat at its thickest, he stripped away the small twigs until he had a good place to hold it. Then he turned toward the sound and waited. The sound was much closer now, and what had been an unidentifiable motion was now clearly a person running right for his location. He could see the person was dressed in … what was the word? … Camouflage … Camo … pants, shirt, and cap. There was no doubt; this was some sort of soldier. And, if the mode of dress was not sufficient, the gun (rifle?) firmly grasped before him in both hands was enough to convince Nils. Him; it was a him; and he looked familiar.

Nils stepped deeper into the grove. With some curiosity about how he knew it, he realized he needed to find some way to hide himself; that stealth would be the way he could overcome this adversary. And that was another thing; he realized this man running toward him was an adversary; that he intended harm to Nils; that he would, in fact, take Nils’ life if he could. Moving behind a large tree trunk, Nils was only mildly surprised to look down and see his robes change from their usual black to a Camo pattern similar to that of the other man; sensing, but not understanding just how, that thinking “stealth” was enough to cause the transformation. More new thoughts came to him, unbidden; he must do something about that gun. The man could just shoot him. Unless he could …what was the phrase? … “level the playing field,” he had no chance of surviving what he knew was to be a fight to the death.

All of this time, however long or short that time had been, Nils had heard the sound, the yell. Suddenly, when it sounded as if it were almost upon him, it stopped. Its absence was shocking to Nils. The silence that followed seemed odd, as if the yell had always been a part of his life. He had the distinct impression that the sound had been there, beating at his thoughts, for all eternity, a constant assault on his mind; or, at least, been there for a very long time. He didn’t know what to make of that thought, but sensed he could not pursue it now, that now he must win his life from his nemesis.

Peering around the tree, Nils saw the back of the man. He was standing very close to the other side of the tree … and he was turning toward Nils. Realizing this might be his only chance, Nils stepped from the protection of the tree and, with a mighty upward swing of his makeshift bat, slammed the body of the man’s weapon, knocking it out of his hands and into a long, flat arc deeper into the grove. Following it with his eyes, Nils saw if fall into thick undergrowth some distance away.

And then he was knocked to the ground. The man struggled to pin him, as if in a wrestling match. Nils moved quickly, employing one counter measure after another, blocking several attempts by the man to subdue him. A small portion of his thoughts was still a little surprised that he knew how to do these things, but he concluded he was pleased to know how and could wonder about his newly acquired skills at some later point … after he survived … if he survived. For now, it was enough that these survival skills came quickly, responding to, and in some case, anticipating the attacks of the man.

How long they fought, Nils could not have said. But after a while he felt himself begin to flag a bit. He needed some way to get the man off of him, some way to buy a few moments so he could get to his feet, find a better defensive position. That’s when he remembered the tree limb. Had it been there all along? Why had he not used it? What had he been thinking? He had a weapon and the other man did not. Had he wanted to lose? There was no time for this kind of introspection. Tightening his grip, Nils swung the limb up toward the man’s head with all his strength.

He felt the limb strike the man, and then it was gone. When he looked, he saw that, instead of harming the man, he had done far worse. The man had simply grabbed to limb as it came toward him and had torn it from Nil’s hands. Now, he stood over Nils, limb held high above his head ready to strike. If this were not shocking enough, Nils could now see the man’s face … his own.

How could that be? He had no twin. How could this soldier look like him; just exactly like him? Then it happened.

Switch.

One second he was lying on the ground, tangled in his now-black-again robes, looking up into his own face. The next, he was the soldier, looking down at the black-robed figure cowering on the ground. And he knew exactly what he must do.

He swung the limb down with all his might.

# # # # # #

This time was different. When he woke this time he remembered everything. It came rolling back to him in waves, one memory triggering another. He felt as though he had been released from a kind of prison. He felt relief. He felt like … himself. And he was, finally, himself. He wanted some time to cherish that idea for a bit, so he didn’t move. Probably one of these sensors was instructed to call someone, regardless. So, while he could, he lay there in his hospital bed, in the pleasant grayness of the semi-darkened room (no, not a room, at least not a hospital room … a lab), and thought about all that had gone before.

The briefing had been thorough. The Colonel had told him a Supreme Court Judge, the Chief Justice actually, had been persuaded to come out of his self-imposed (but government enforced) isolation. Here might be their only chance to make a difference. If he could get outside, unhindered by his minders, they might be able to show him enough of the real world to convince him to lead the Court in a different direction; away from endorsing the overreaching (however well intentioned) powers of the Executive Branch, and toward restoring some much needed civil liberties. The heavy-handedness of the government may have served a real purpose in the years following the Strike, but here and now, almost 20 years later, there was no more rioting in the streets, no more rampant chaos in anticipation of a possible extinction-level event. Who knew what served as the motivations for maintaining near martial law all these years? Here was their chance to swing things back the other way.

The Doc had shown him the finger-tipped size piece of tech they wanted to put in his brain. Well, she made it pretty clear she didn’t want to put it in his brain. Every step of the way she kept reminding him that he didn’t have to volunteer for the mission, that it was dangerous not even counting the tech, and that the tech could, probably would, have side effects … some they knew of and some they could only speculate about. And, of course, there was always the possibility something could happen that they had never imagined.

He asked her, “If this is so dangerous, then why am I being asked to volunteer?” He got the answer he expected.

With a grimace the Doc said, “You’re the best match we have. No one else could even tolerate the insertion of the device; much less make use of it.”

He settled the matter by asking, “So what is this thing? And how does putting it in my brain help us get the judge where we need him?”

After a pause (She was really angry with him for ignoring her warnings), she explained. “This device is not the first of its kind. We’ve been using some version of it since the late 1960’s; and we possessed a version of it for a couple decades before that. We don’t know the original intent for the device, only that it allows people to become someone else. Through some means not entirely clear to us (she threw a very pointed look at the Colonel), the device can, when the subject is properly prepared (another look), bring about both mental and physiological changes in the subject.”

“Doc?” he said. “Can you give me the executive summary? This is interesting, but, well, do I really need to know all of this?”

She said something under her breath, angry; he thought she might have said, “Heroes.” In any case, she continued, “OK. Here it is, Major. I’ll bottom-line it for you. With the good Judge’s cooperation, we can feed you enough information about him and his life for you to, in theory, fool everyone about you into believing you are him. We can put this device in you and make you look, sound, act … actually, just about be Nils Jorgenson … at least for a while; hopefully, for long enough. You are close in height; some special shoes can provide the necessary adjustment.”

The Colonel, having held back for a while out of deference to the doctor, took over at this point, telling him, “In essence, you’ll be going undercover, just not quite the way most people would understand the term. You would need to maintain the cover for about two weeks, possibly less. We have a way to insert and extract you that won’t arouse suspicion. We have a person on the inside who can facilitate the switch.”

And that’s how he came to join “Operation Mask.” He was little unnerved to learn there was a full operation in place, an operation that had been in place for quite some time, to temporarily replace people with operatives pretending, pretty successfully it seemed, to be them. He was introduced to the cover company, “Revels,” and to their staff. He learned there was an active list of clientele who regularly called on Revels to facilitate their need to be someone else from time to time.

After that, it was a bit of a whirlwind. Digis to watch, voice to practice, walk to practice, schedules to learn; tons and tons of information to read and memorize. A very intense course in becoming Nils Jorgenson, Chief Supreme Court Justice.

And then the time came for the surgery.

“OK, Doc. Here’s your chance. Before I go under the knife, give me the full disclosure. What can go wrong?”

“What’s the point? You’ve made it clear you intend to do this no matter what I say.”

“The point, Doc, is that this is a military operation. I need the intel, all of it, before I go into the field. I need to know, as much as is practicable, what to expect.”

She eyed him for a few seconds, then said, “The potential problems are limitless, but there’s no need for me to speculate. What we know could go wrong is enough. Firstly your body may not revert after the end of the mission. It’s happened before. We think we’ve fixed it, but nothing about this tech is really sure. It wasn’t designed for humans; well, not exactly. Anyway, that’s a concern. Though, as much as you might not like it, your overall health would not be impacted, so it’s a minimal threat. Another, more serious concern lies with sublimation. You could slip into a state where you come to believe you actually are Nils Jorgenson. That kind of problem has also happened before. While your health would not impacted, your quality of life would change radically. We can’t just let two of someone wander around, both claiming to be that person. We have had some recoveries in these cases, partial ones for the most part. Some though, some have had to be … umm, restricted for their own good. It is among the worst possibilities. But that is not the worst. There is the possibility the device may break down. Human bodies are not particularly fond of foreign objects, and our bodies have found all sorts of inventive ways to reject them. In that case, the result, at least in the past, has been sublimation, followed by amnesia, followed by radiation poisoning, and then death. In one case, deformity preceded the amnesia. That one was especially horrible.”

“Well,” he said, “I guessed it would be something like that … not in that detail, of course, but I could see how someone could get lost. Fiddling with memory would just about have to be sketchy. Thanks, Doc, for being straight with me. One more question: why the special shoes? Can’t the device just adjust my height while it’s making all the other physiological changes?”

Her eyes took on a haunted look. “There were some very bad results, some changes that were … monstrous. We just could not control that aspect of the device. It took a long time, but we finally, mercifully, managed to turn that part off. What’s left is bad enough.”

He couldn’t help himself. He had to know. “Doc, if you feel so strongly about this, why do you stay?”

A slight smile came to her face. “Do you know, I think about that question every day? And so far, every day, I’ve concluded things are better with me here than with me on the outside. At least being here I can exercise some mitigating effect, be a voice for caution in the face of very seductive technologies.”

And, of course, something had gone wrong. He had gotten lost, had stopped being a mask for Nils Jorgenson and had ended up believing he was Nils Jorgenson. That must have really freaked them out. Thank God their ploy had worked. He was pretty sure he would have died if they hadn’t been able to lure him out with the idea of getting a mask from Revels.

He could hear the unmistakable sound of many footsteps approaching his location. Reflection time was over. He had time for one last thought before the herd of medicos descended on him. He didn’t know if it was a holdover from his masking experience or if he was just allowing himself to come to grips with something that was long overdue. His moments of reflection had brought one thing to the surface he would have to act on.

Jorgenson’s late wife did resemble the Colonel a bit, but it had never been Maggie’s face he saw in his thoughts all those weeks; it was that of Colonel Susan O’Brien. How he (they) would overcome the differences in rank, among other obstacles, was not clear to him just then.

But, what they heck, he liked a challenge.