Miss Parker tipped her hand over to look at her wristwatch as she cleared the supper dishes from the table with Evan's help. "Seven-thirty already!" she murmured to herself.
"Did you say something?" Evan asked, bringing the last of the leftovers to the kitchen counter to be packed for refrigeration.
"Nothing," she brushed aside her worries. "I'm just getting anxious to hear that your Grandpa got home safely. He should have been there a long time ago."
"Why don't you call him?" Evan suggested with a shrug and then bounced on the balls of his feet a little. "Can I play with the X-Box for a while?"
"Go on," she told him, ruffling his hair. "Just remember that tomorrow is a school day, and Em is coming to pick you up and take care of getting you settled in the new school early in the morning."
"Thanks, Mom," Evan grinned and bounced up to give his big sister a peck on the cheek before trotting from the room.
Miss Parker took another look at her wristwatch and then walked to where the apartment's cordless telephone sat in its cradle. She dialed and then waited while the phone on the other end rang four, five times before hanging up and carefully and slowly redialing the number. When for a second time it rang five, six times without getting picked up, she disconnected and then dialed a second number – that of a cell phone Sydney had had since the very early days of such things. That number rang four times before being shifted to voice mail – and she disconnected again with a worried look on her face.
"What's up?" Sam asked, coming into the kitchen to bring both himself and Evan glasses of ice water to quench the thirst of a hot and competitive video racing game.
"That's strange," Miss Parker put the receiver back in the cradle slowly. "Sydney isn't answering – either at his home or his cell number."
"Maybe he's out shopping and forgot his cell…" Sam offered, pressing first one glass and then the other against the ice dispenser in the refrigerator door.
"Since when do YOU ever remember Sydney being out of the house without his cell phone?" she countered worriedly.
"You mean, other than the last three days?" Sam returned, putting the second to the water dispenser now. He turned once both glasses were full. "Give the poor guy a break – this is the first time in how long that he hasn't had anybody breathing down his neck or depending on him for something." The sweeper's blue eyes twinkled. "I don't know about you, but I'd be enjoying the peace and quiet."
Miss Parker shook her head. "That's not Sydney's way – and you know it. He said he'd call when he got home."
Sam's eyes searched for and then found the digital clock on the stove. "Seven-thirty three." He looked back at Miss Parker. "You're right – he should have called by now."
Miss Parker narrowed her eyes and then picked up the telephone receiver. She consulted the little pad of paper Jarod had left near the phone cradle and dialed again. "Hi Em, this is…" She grimaced and then nodded. "Yeah. Is he there – I need to talk to him."
"Dad? You coming?" Evan called from the other room – and Sam gestured with hands encumbered with glasses of ice water his intent to be in with the boy.
Miss Parker nodded him on his way and then put her free hand into a fist at her waist as Jarod's deep voice filled her ear. "Jarod! Have you heard from Sydney?"
"No, of course not," Jarod replied, his voice betraying his confusion. "Why would he call me?"
"I don't know – it's just…" Miss Parker sighed. "He was supposed to let me know that he'd gotten home safely – and it's seven-thirty-something in the evening already…"
"When did he leave?" Jarod demanded.
"Before you got here with Angelo," she reminded him, "about eight-thirty this morning."
"That IS odd," Jarod agreed with her, "but perhaps he had car trouble on route. If he hasn't called by tomorrow…" He left the rest of the statement unuttered.
"What are we going to do?" she demanded. "Neither of us can just pull out and go hunting for him – it will jeopardize everything…"
"Sit tight, Parker," Jarod advised her patiently. "Call your lawyer in Blue Cove in the morning, if you haven't heard from Sydney yet, and have HIM check up on things. Nine chances out of ten, Sydney's fine."
No, an inner sense that Miss Parker hadn't hear from for weeks and months informed her silently, things were not fine. "I've got a bad feeling," she told him impotently. "And the more time we waste…"
"As you said," Jarod reminded her firmly, "neither of us can fly off the handle right now, or we'll jeopardize everything we've got set up so far. Call Sydney again in the morning – and then call the lawyer if you didn't reach him by then. OK?"
Miss Parker gave a big sigh. "I hope you're right," she snarled at him tiredly and then hung up the call abruptly.
It was going to be a very long night.
oOoOo
"Yeah, I got him," Stan Bateman crowed, not needing to look in his rear-view mirror at the unconscious man he had trussed and hooded and handcuffed in the back seat. "I'm on my way back now – I should be in Philadelphia in about four hours…"
"Its about time something started working right," Jim McKenna sighed in relief. "Took you long enough…"
"Hey!" Bateman snapped back. "I got the guy the moment he walked into his house – God only knows where he'd been all this time."
"Look, we don't need any more screw-ups," McKenna demanded. "Don't break any speed laws, don't run any stop signs, and no detours. Just get that guy here as quickly as you possibly can – before any MORE damage is done."
"Whaddya mean, any MORE damage?" Bateman asked curiously.
"Just get back," McKenna snapped. "Save the questions for later." He hung up the call from his end. He wouldn't think about the two other Centre Pretenders who eluded his grasp. Not now…
"You must be pretty damned important for Mr. McKenna to be wanting you this badly, old man," Bateman aimed his statement at the unconscious man in the back seat. "I wonder just who the hell you really are?"
He aimed the front of his vehicle up the entrance ramp onto the highway heading north and set his speed control for a mere four miles per hour over the speed limit. That was as fast as he could go dependably without attracting unwanted attention from law enforcement – and it would carry him along with the greater share of traffic running at approximately the same speed.
At least he was done being bored out of his skull in the home of a man who didn't read anything but boring stuff – a man without a single Penthouse or Playboy magazine in sight anywhere You'd think the man were living the life of a monk…
oOoOo
"You're sure this is going to work?"
Broots typed a little more and brought up a far more comprehensive spreadsheet on the monitor screen. "It's like dropping a grain of sand inside an oyster, I tell ya," the former Centre computer technician exclaimed excitedly and then pointed to a particular set of cells on the right hand side of his screen. "We want this process to start slowly and then snowball under its own weight – although we don't have the same time frame that the Foundation had to work on the Centre. By doing THIS…" he modified a single number downward, setting off a cascade of recalculation throughout the entire spreadsheet, "we plant the grain of sand AND give it a gentle shove in the right direction."
"I thought we were going to work with shipping and receiving," JD shook his head. It didn't take Pretender skills to see that what Mr. Broots was doing was insidious, ingenious and inevitably lethal to any balanced accounting – but he himself had been thinking in bigger terms.
"We are," Broots smiled at the younger version of Jarod – a young man who had been home only a few hours before demanding his father drive him over so as to see just what he'd could do to help the situation along. "But, like I said, we don't want things to start falling in too quickly. Jarod needs time to uncover the man who had this one fellow murdered – and Miss Parker needs to know who tried to kill HER. AND, don't forget, we suspect the Foundation to be the one responsible for blowing up the Montana facility in order to cover up stealing several of the Duplicity subjects. Shipping and receiving is only one part of what we'll need to look at. Thing is, we need to get stuff just unstable enough that, once that's done, we can fiddle a little more and bring the whole house of cards down around their ears – just like they did to the Centre."
"Wasn't that all Jarod's doing, though – feeding law enforcement enough information to finally move beyond the vested, purchased interests…"
"That part of it, yeah," Broots nodded. "And when the time comes, that will be part of what we do here too." He turned back to his computer screen. "But you see, our work was made easier because of all of the tinkering these people did behind the scenes at the Centre for all that time before – just as we'll make it easier for the Foundation to crumble into scandals and lawsuits AND bankruptcy when that moment comes for them. For the time being, however, think of us as termites, eating away at the financial pillars that hold up the Foundation while Jarod and Miss Parker snoop into corners the Foundation doesn't want probed."
JD wrinkled his nose. "You mean I'm to think of myself as a six-legged member of species…"
Broots shook his head. "Forget it," he sighed. "Just take notes and watch what I do – Jarod wanted me to show you how to get into the system and out of it without calling attention to what you're doing. Between us, we have a lot of undermining to do, and its better if we both can get in an out by ourselves."
"Did you do THAT too?" JD pointed to another spot on the spreadsheet.
Broots blinked and looked closer at what the young man seated next to him was looking at – and then turned to look at JD with a slow smile spreading across his face. "No, I certainly DIDN'T do that – but I like it. Looks like we'll have to tread more carefully, though, because there's someone else carrying on monkey-business in the Foundation financials."
""Monkey-business?"" JD frowned.
Good heavens! Was Jarod this dense too, Broots asked himself mentally. "Somebody else is messing with them the same way we are – and from the looks of this…" he stated a little distractedly as he followed the spreadsheet pages to where the consequences of the odd numbering were more clearly expressed at the far corner of the very last page, "…he or she has been at it for a while."
"An ally then?" JD asked hopefully.
Broots shrugged. "Good question."
oOoOo
The cell phone in Imsi Londele's pocket began chirping – as it had at the same time for the last two days. He pulled it out and looked at it and sighed. It was Mrs. Mutumbo again – no doubt wanting an update as to his progress on his contract with her. At last, however, he was ready for her call. "Mrs. Mutumbo," he stated cordially as he put the little device to his ear.
"Where the Hell have you been?" Lula demanded without prologue. "I've been calling you…"
"Yes, I know," Londele replied easily. "I've been a bit busy…"
"Olabi still lives – and the stockholders meeting is only a day and a half away. I paid you good money…"
"Indeed you did," Londele agreed. "And under normal circumstances, I can assure you, the contract would either have already been carried out or would be on the verge of being completed as we speak. However, extenuating circumstances have arisen that has made my job far more… difficult…"
"I don't want to hear excuses," Lula snapped. "I want to hear that its finished."
"Or…" Londele tempted his former employer. "You were saying…"
"Of all the nerve! Do you have any idea what my spreading the word in the proper circles that Imsi Londele cannot even carry out a simple assassination will do to your reputation?" Lula's voice lowered lethally.
"Easily," he answered without the slightest edge to his voice. "But then, perhaps you should try to imagine what MY spreading the word in proper circles that Lula Mutumbo had decided to assassinate her way to the top of the heap at the Triumvirate will do to YOUR ability to carry out your job."
There was a long, deadly silence. "What are you saying?"
"Or have you considered what the stockholders would say when they hear how one of their elected governing officials had tried to usurp authority through murder and conspiracy?" Londele continued with calm assurance.
"You? Blackmailing ME?" Lula was incredulous.
"No," he shook his head, knowing she couldn't see what he was doing, "I'm just pointing out that it isn't just I who stand to lose in a shooting war of words," he explained sharply. "I value my life, Mrs. Mutumbo – and I am in a position to offer you not only the money back that you paid me originally to assassinate Shinse Olabi, but a substantial bonus for agreeing to cancel the contract."
"I don't WANT the contract cancelled, you idiot!" Lula was livid. "I want Olabi dead – along with that damned Siskele Adin. They've led the Triumvirate down the primrose path that leads to bankrupcy – and only I can bring us back to our former position of strength and global influence. I…"
"I know what you want," Londele said calmly but firmly. "But I'm telling you that I can no longer meet the terms of our contract. How would you like your refund handled?"
"To Hell with the refund! You're a dead man, Imsi Londele – if it's the last thing on Earth that I do," Lula shouted into her phone. "Dead – do you hear me?"
"I do indeed," Londele told her, eyeing the tape recorder with the cord that led from the microphone that was attached to the speaker of the cell phone. "This will be the last time we speak, Mrs. Mutumbo – and I regret that our relationship has to end on such hostile terms."
"You will regret this decision," Lula shouted and abruptly disconnected the call.
Londele sighed and pulled the microphone from the back of his cell phone, and then turned the little machine off to rewind the tape a bit and play it back to check for audio quality.
"I don't WANT the contract cancelled, you idiot! I want Olabi dead – along with that damned…"
Londele snapped the machine off again and started the rewind process again in earnest as he picked up the cell phone and dialed a number that he'd just memorized in the last two days.
"Adin," a curt voice answered.
"I have what your boss wanted," Londele announced tiredly. "How do you want…"
"I'll send my men to collect the evidence," Siskele answered brusquely. "Meet them at the arranged spot – one hour."
"Yes." Londele closed the cell phone again as the call disconnected in his ear.
It was done now – he was committed to a course of action he could no longer stray from. This tape would seal the fate of Mrs. Mutumbo – and by delivering her into Olabi's hands, he was free at last to concentrate on the task at hand that would take him to America the next morning.
And, when he was finished there, he would be four times richer than he would have been originally. That would make up for never again – never EVER again – accepting another assassination contract. When McKenna was dead, Imsi Londele would be officially out of the assassination for hire business – and rich enough to take up investment as a way to increase his resources in the world.
It was time.
oOoOo
"Damn it!" Miss Parker growled and slammed the telephone receiver back into the cradle. She looked over at where Sam was watching her quietly, glad that Evan had gone to bed already. "Ten-thirty and he's STILL not answering!" Sam merely nodded at her. "Don't tell me that you're not worried too…" she demanded with a hand on her hip.
"Of course I'm worried – but Jarod's right, Cat," Sam rose from his easy chair and retrieved his glass from the coffee table to bring to the kitchen for rinsing. "There isn't a whole helluva lot we can do about it now. Getting upset…"
"I'm NOT upset," she snapped at him.
"Riiight…" he shook his head at her, amazed that he was feeling brave enough to challenge her on the obvious. "I know that you used to snap people's heads off every time you turned around, but…" He shrugged at her and waited for the explosion.
Miss Parker's eyes narrowed, and then she sighed. "I hate this…"
Sam let go a small breath of relief. "I don't like it much better than you do, for that matter. I suppose I COULD try to call an ex-sweeper friend of mine to check things out for us…"
Miss Parker's eyes brightened, and then she shook her head. "That would cause suspicion, wouldn't it?"
Sam gave a brief nod. "Asking the wrong questions of the wrong people at the wrong time can put others on notice," he agreed. "Jarod's idea of calling the lawyer tomorrow if you still haven't heard anything is a good one. The lawyer poking around and asking questions about an evidently disappeared Sydney could work to our benefit – at least as far as preparing the ground for Sydney's end of the story for our Pretend."
He rinsed the glass and then watched as Miss Parker stalked over to the drapery that covered the huge, plate glass window that was part of their outer wall, tweaked it aside and stared out at the night. "Stewing isn't going to help either, I'm afraid," he added when she turned to glare at him again for his observation. "We both have to get up in the morning early – we can't afford not to get our rest."
"I'm not going to be able to sleep…" she growled.
"You'd better hope you're wrong," Sam warned seriously. "Your story is that you're a highly-trained security expert…"
"I AM highly trained," she snapped.
"I'm not arguing that," Sam replied after a quick, deep breath to stabilize his patience. "But your coming to your very first day at work at one of the most high-profile high-security research and development firms in the country looking like you tied one on the night before is NOT going to make a good impression."
"Fine!" Miss Parker dropped the drapes and turned for the stairs. She gave Sam yet another glare as he waited courteously for her to start up the steps ahead of him after turning off the lights. "You're enjoying this far too much, I think."
"Enjoying what?" Sam asked, having to work to keep his voice even.
"Playing husband," she retorted. "Talking back to me in a way that would have landed you in Renewal just a few weeks ago."
He would have laughed, had the situation not been serious. "I'm just trying to make sure this little charade of ours stands a decent chance of accomplishing what we want it to," Sam's voice demonstrated clearly that he, too, had an end to his supply of patience. "And I'm thinking that Evan isn't the only one who needs to get behind the program a little more fully here. Right here and now, I'm NOT your personal sweeper. I'd appreciate it if you'd remember that and treat me as you would a husband. My life's on the line here too – just as much as yours is."
Miss Parker stopped in the middle of the staircase and turned to stare down at him. "Are you saying that you don't think I can carry this off?"
"I'm saying," Sam said as he caught up to her, caught her elbow in one large hand and turned her so that she would accompany him the rest of the way up the stairs, "that your Ice Queen act played a helluva lot better in Blue Cove than it does here in Philadelphia."
She jerked her arm out of his grasp. "Don't touch me!"
"Oh, for God's sake!" Sam shook his head. She was worried about Sydney and taking it out on HIM. Sparring with her verbally wasn't going to help matters much either. "Call the lawyer now, then, if you're that worried about him. At least then you can be sure that some sort of investigation will be underway the moment things get going in the morning."
Miss Parker paused, then shook her head. "You're right – it's too late to do anything right now. I'll set the alarm for an hour early, though – that lawyer is getting paid a pretty penny, and can afford to get up early one morning." Her posture, which had begun to slump, straightened – and she stalked the rest of the way up the stairs with determination in her step.
Sam merely shook his head again. The next few weeks were going to be VERY interesting ones. One thing was certain, however: he was deeply grateful that he wasn't truly married to Miss Parker – just pretending was almost beyond him.
oOoOo
"Is he awake?" Jim McKenna watched Stan Bateman climb from behind the steering wheel and pull open the passenger door behind him.
"I heard a couple of moans as I was driving onto the grounds," Bateman answered, grasping the bound feet of the man laying on the back seat and giving a good yank to bring the old man half out of the car. "Stand up, old man, or we'll drag you."
Sydney, his body stiff from the position he'd been obliged to keep for the past few hours, struggled to get his feet beneath him without the use of his hands. He could see nothing through the hood over his head – and he could appreciate the kind of fear and apprehension that a much younger Jarod must have had to endure when HE'D been kidnapped all those years ago.
"Good," McKenna nodded in satisfaction. "The sooner this man is on the job and doing what we need, the better for all of us. You know where he's to go?"
"You want him in the next cell from…"
"That's right," McKenna nodded again. "Get him in there, get him cleaned up and fed, and then get him to the SIM Lab. We'll see if that stubborn Pretender will be able to resist someone who knows what the Hell they're doing."
Bateman leaned over and snicked open a switchblade, with which he severed the duct tape that had held the old man's ankles together in the car to keep him from kicking. "Walk," was the rough order, with a hard and implacable grasp on the elbow that seemed to know exactly where the nerves were more most vulnerable to being compressed painfully.
Sydney's mind was spinning madly. Had he heard properly – he'd been taken because he knew how to handle a Pretender? What on Earth was going on here? Jarod was free – free and safe at long last from exploitation by the Centre – so just exactly who…
When his mind finally processed the possibilities, he almost tripped. It hadn't occurred to him – and probably had never even crossed Jarod's mind – that the Foundation, in stealing part of Duplicity, would need to have experienced help in making the cloned copy of Jarod do his work. There were mental exercises that started out a session that were essential to the process – exercises without which a Pretender would enter a SIM with his intellect unprimed.
He didn't know whether to be elated or extremely worried. He'd not truly wanted to spend the entire Pretend on the sidelines, only watching while the others did what was necessary. Then again, neither did he really want to add a wrinkle to an already complex problem by needing rescue after being plopped down smack in the middle of everything.
And what about this other Pretender – Pretenders, if what Jarod had said was correct. JD had reported that of the eleven children and young men they knew to have been housed in Montana, four were never recovered. How many Pretenders were here? Would he be allowed to work with all of them?
Just what kind of opportunities to make the Foundation's plans just that much more unworkable was he going to encounter – and would his experience at surviving at the Centre hold him in good stead in a new and potentially more dangerous setting? Sydney struggled to keep his feet. He'd find the answers to those questions, and to questions he hadn't even thought of asking yet, soon enough…
oOoOo
Ray Carlisle stared at his computer screen, mesmerized by the story that was unfolding for him. If he hadn't received the preliminary leads from Susan Granger – one of the least likely to pull his chain – he'd have been suspicious that he was being set up for some reason. The story he was getting was utterly fantastic – practically unbelievable.
The Centre had been in the news a great deal – more so in previous weeks than now – but a criminal trial of the former CEO of the organization was still grabbing headlines from time to time. As the story, in all its sordid and fantastic facets, had broken, a chronicle of the shadowy research and development firm had been pieced together. There had been a smattering of stories about murder and extortion – about bribery of highly-placed government officials who even now sought to distance themselves from the investigation.
And then there had been the relatively small story about allegations of kidnapping of children and holding them for years against their will – apparently to harvest their intellects. It had sounded more like science fiction, and therefore been relatively discounted by the mainstream media sources. But it was this story – and the sources from which it had arises – that Carlisle was most interested in now. It was to this story that all the leads Susan had given him were leading.
Susan had told him the story that this Jarod had told HER – how he'd been taken as a small child and held by the Centre, and how much he wanted to find any signs of his parents now that he'd managed to escape. He'd given few real clues as to any of the other people who were part of this horror – Jarod had told her only that his "mentor" had been named Sydney.
And now, on the screen, the discounted story of a "Pretender" was spelled out in all its implications. There had been a project found in the Centre files called "Pretender" – and the man at the head of it had been named Sydney Green, MD, PhD. He had been involved in leading simulations – SIMs, as the Centre had named them – that had been one of the Centre's most profitable endeavors until… the project had just… stopped. Evidently a multi-year-long search had ensued that had been partially to blame for draining Centre funds.
But, as all of the alleged activities of this project except the search had ceased over ten years previous, no charges had been filed against this Doctor Green or any of his support staff. The statute of limitations had been met and exceeded for those things – none of which had arisen to the point of murder.
Still, Carlisle wrote down the name "Sydney Green" on a the top page of a new legal pad. This Sydney Green would be able to tell him if the Jarod that Susan Granger was looking for was this so-called "Pretender" – and, with any luck, how to get in touch with him.
Blue Cove, Delaware was only barely on the map – but it would be his next stop. He typed in a new web address and brought up the homepage of his favorite travel company. Monday was a good day for traveling north…
oOoOo
It really didn't matter which side he tried to lie on, Leo couldn't get to sleep. His mind was just spinning too quickly with all the implications of the last two days. There were so many variables – so many facets of the situation that were simply not understood well enough to postulate probable consequences so as to be ready. He rolled over on his left side and looked across at where Virgo was. "Are you awake?" he asked very softly.
Virgo raised himself up on his elbow and faced the younger boy. "You can't sleep either?"
Leo raised himself up on his elbow in a mirror image. "I'm having trouble understanding what's going on," he admitted with a look of chagrin.
Virgo nodded. "I too am having trouble incorporating all the new information properly," he admitted in return. "It seems, however, that we are going to be transferred to Albany in the near future."
"I thought Mr. Markham liked us," Leo commented with a touch of disappointment in his voice. "I liked him, anyway."
"I still think he likes us," Virgo replied after a moment's thought. "Did you see the way he really didn't want to leave us after he brought us back to Mrs. Goldstein?"
"We confuse him," Leo stated with conviction. "He wasn't handling the information we were giving him in the car very well either."
"Do you really think we're going to be expected to make choices based upon superficial desires rather than empirical data from now on?" Virgo shook his head. "I don't know about you, but I was told that "wanting is irrelevant" more than once…"
"Me too," Leo nodded seriously. "But I think the rules the people out here live by are different from the ones we've been living with. Greetings and farewells seem to be expected behavior – and we can even make mistakes or state our ignorance of a proper response without punishment now."
"I don't like to have to choose," Virgo declared firmly. "I don't like the environment being so open to outside influences that it can be difficult to pinpoint relevancy from irrelevancy."
Leo shook his head slightly. "I don't know – the idea that I actually have an opportunity to say something about an action I am to take is intriguing. And what about the food?" Leo smiled at his "brother". "It's better than the stuff we used to get – right?"
"Yeah," Virgo had to admit. "Even the food that first keeper – Mrs. Kingsley – fed us was tastier than the green stuff."
"Hers made my stomach hurt, though," Leo shuddered. "Mrs. Goldstein's skill in food preparation is much greater – and Mrs. Wilmot…"
"How do they know what they want to eat, with all the choices out there?" Virgo wondered aloud. "Is there a nutritional guide that tells these folks what kind of foods they should eat at what time of day – or on which day of the week?"
"I liked Mrs. Wilmot," Leo mused aloud. "She had a soft voice – and she showed me how to feed the fish." His face grew soft. "I'd never given anything else alive food before."
"You fed them?" Virgo sounded astounded.
"Yeah – she gave them these dry, thin flakes that she pulverized between her fingers to make into smaller pieces," Leo explained and demonstrated. "The fish all came to the top of the tank until the food began to sink – then they swam very fast."
"I wish I could have seen that…"
"I think… I WANT to stay with the Wilmots," Leo said after a long and thoughtful moment.
"We'll go where we're told to go, just like always," Virgo shook his head. "Want is irrelevant."
"Oh come on," Leo cajoled. "Try it! Think about what we have here – and what you saw in Albany – and just tell me which environment you think you'd find most stimulating and enriching."
Virgo shook his head vehemently and lay back down on his back. "When the time comes for us to go back – when whatever SIM we've been put in is finished and we're taken for debriefing – want will have been made irrelevant again. I don't want to get in trouble for trying to make choices again…"
Leo tipped his head, and then sat up and threw his legs off the edge of the twin bed. "You got in trouble for making choices? Back THERE?" His whispered voice had grown very soft.
"I don't like to think about it," Virgo sulked. "I just know better than to try again."
"What did they do?" Leo asked, curious now.
"Go to sleep," Virgo retorted, ignoring the question deliberately and pointedly. "You'll see – what you want won't make any difference at all."
"Do you really think this is a SIM?"
"Go ahead and think otherwise – just don't be surprised when it all falls in on you later. Go to sleep," Virgo told him bluntly.
Mildly disappointed and just a little alarmed that Virgo had tried what HE had often thought of doing with evidently very negative consequences, Leo swung his legs back up onto the mattress and stretched out again. Maybe Virgo was right – if he started to think that he could make choices and ended up back in debriefing with his mentor staring down at him disapprovingly, he'd be very disappointed. Better to just go along with whatever those in authority over his life had in store for him.
Still – to live in a world where his ability to make choices was unchallenged made for a wonderful dream…
oOoOo
Sydney looked around the cell in which he'd been placed. It looked all too familiar – the Centre had had several dozens of "spaces" like these. There was just enough there to make the cubicle habitable: a combination commode and toilet, a thin mattress on a raised cement block with a pitifully thin pillow and coarse linens and a rough blanket, a single table with a single chair, and a small but empty shelf unit over the table to hold… whatever. Jarod had spent the better part of his life in a cubicle similar to this, he reminded himself – and even HE had spent time in one when still recovering his sight after his abortive bombing attempt on the Centre.
He'd been unconscious for a while – so it was impossible to judge how much time had passed since he'd walked into his kitchen and been taken by surprise from behind. It could still be daylight – but this place, like the Centre before it, cared little for such conventions. Very briefly, he wondered whether he'd been taken to an underground facility like the Centre's – then discarded that idea. The air circulating in his "space" was too fresh to have traveled miles in air conditioning ductwork.
And it was better than anything he'd had while in the camp in Germany – so he really couldn't complain much. Every time he'd been closed up into a small, confined space, he'd recalled the isolation experiments carried out on himself and Jacob during those horrible, desperate years in Nazi confinement. And each time, he'd managed to convince himself that tolerating the situation would lead to surviving the circumstances leading to the confinement, just as it had in Dachau. With Dachau as a benchmark for unacceptable, Sydney had come out of many delicate situations with his ability to cope and think clearly intact. It was the only good to have come from those days.
The heavy metal door suddenly opened inwardly, and two muscular sweeper-types stepped into the dim light of Sydney's "space." "Here," one of them said, tossing a khaki shirt and matching pants onto the mattress of the bed. "Put these on."
Sydney stood patiently. "Move it," the second sweeper-type growled at him. "We haven't got all day."
"May I have some privacy?" he asked in as calm and congenial voice as he could manage.
The first sweeper-type guffawed. "What do you think you are, a GUEST here? Get moving."
Sydney swallowed hard and began slipping his suspenders over his shoulders. He'd forgotten that part – the total loss of privacy that had been the rule of the day at Dachau. It had never occurred to him before that Jarod would have had the same lack of privacy for his entire life too – and the realization was like a dash of cold water. He promised himself that if and when he escaped this latest trap, he would make a point of apologizing to the former Pretender for a number of insights he'd gained from this experience.
The shirt was a little large, and the pants were snug about a waist that Sydney knew had been expanding a bit more than he liked to admit in the last few months. He was just leaning down to his former clothes to detach the suspenders when the first sweeper-type caught at an elbow. "You don't have time for that," he insisted, pulling Sydney erect. "Time to go."
"Very well," Sydney replied, once more trying calm obedience as a tool to getting the kind of information he wanted. "Can you at least tell me where I'm going?"
"You'll find out soon enough, old man," the second said and took firm, not-quite-painful custody of the other elbow. "Move your feet so we don't have to drag you."
No, Sydney decided, he definitely wasn't underground – although the windows that lined the top of the walls of the corridor outside his "space" were covered so that it was still impossible to tell what time of day it was. It also wasn't a cement floor beneath his feet – in fact, the all-weather carpeting was practically brand new. He wasn't escorted very far at all before another metal door opened and he was thrust inside – with the door slammed shut behind him.
"Sit down."
Sydney blinked in the suddenly bright light – and finally his eyes focused on the man at the table. There was no reason or possible benefit to be gained by resisting or refusing, so he moved to pull the chair out and sit down, folding his hands on the table expectantly.
"I'm sure you're wondering what you're doing here," the man stated, not even allowing that any other possibility existed. Jake McKenna was enjoying this immensely – after all those years of playing a lick-boot lackey to the Centre high mucky-mucks, he was about to get a little of his own back. He'd seen Sydney Green from a distance many times – the man was one of the insufferable professionals that had willingly signed their lives away to making a living in the depths of the Centre underground facility. Green himself had never given him insult – but enough of the others had done so that Green would reap the harvest that had been sown. A "mere" accountant indeed!
"Correct," Sydney nodded slightly. "I take it you are here to fill me in on that reason."
"You're a smart man, Dr. Green – I'm hoping that doesn't mean you're too stupid to know when not to be a smart-ass." McKenna's voice was brusque, sharp.
"I meant no disrespect," Sydney hastened to add.
"Good. Then here's what's going on. We have a young man here who is in need of your unique talents and experiences…"
Sydney shrugged. "I'm only a staff psychiatrist – and a retired one at that. If you needed a shrink, you could have just called the local mental health department and made an appoi…"
McKenna's hand struck the table a sharp, resounding blow. "Do NOT test my patience, Dr. Green. You know damned well that your experience and resume is far from run of the mill."
Sydney looked the man in the eye. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."
McKenna leaned forward menacingly. "I'm talking about your precious Pretender Project, Doctor – and your THIRTY YEARS of experience getting a Pretender to do simulation after simulation for the good and profit of your Centre masters."
Sydney shrugged. "Those days are long behind me – the Pretender Project was finished when my research subject escaped confinement. I haven't worked a SIM in…"
"But you know HOW…" McKenna hissed, "…and THAT is the most important thing."
"Knowing how to manage a SIM is useless without a suitable intellect with which to work," Sydney tossed out, no longer trying to cooperate. "Pretenders are a very limited resource – there is only one alive that I know of, and I seriously doubt he's HERE."
McKenna's hand hit the surface of the table again. "I told you not to play smart-ass with me, Doctor. Do you honestly think we would have gone to all the time and expense to acquire your services if we DIDN'T have a suitable intellect for you to manage?"
"Impossible!" Sydney snorted. He had to perpetuate the illusion that he knew nothing about Duplicity, or else he might give away that others would be aware of the theft itself. Fully half of the effort going into Jarod's and Miss Parker's endeavor was to rescue any surviving Duplicity subjects, if the Foundation had actually been the one to take them.
McKenna laughed – and the sound of it brought the hackles up on the back of Sydney's neck. "I seriously doubt that you were privy to all of the Centre's well-kept secrets, Doctor. The Centre wasn't about to let the Pretender Project die – they had a whole new generation of them on ice. I know – I was part of the group that stole one right out from under Mr. Raines' nose."
"You stole… a Pretender?" Sydney wasn't certain he'd heard properly. This man was ADMITTING to having stolen Duplicity?
"We weren't about to let the Centre have all the breaks," McKenna commented coldly. "But, apparently, we didn't have enough information about how the project was managed on a day to day basis – because we're having a very difficult time getting our new Pretender to cooperate with us despite all sorts of both positive and negative reinforcements. So we decided to take an innovative approach – to make use of the expertise of a man who had worked with Pretenders the longest." His grin was that of a shark circling its prey. "You."
Sydney shook his head. "I don't believe you."
"Your belief, at this moment in time, is not the issue. We have a Pretender, and we have a project we've been working on that has hit a particularly troublesome snag that threatens our ability to deliver a finished project within the time allowed." McKenna's eyes glittered. "Your task is to get our new Pretender doing what he has been trained to do – and get that problem worked out as quickly as possible, is that clear?"
Sydney's gaze was steady. "And if I refuse to cooperate?"
McKenna nodded briefly. "Then your assistance would no longer be necessary – and I'm sure you'd understand our need to keep our endeavors from being discovered by anybody outside the Eire Foundation family. I assume that answers your question?"
Sydney nodded with a sinking feeling. If his assistance were no longer necessary, his life would be a liability. His only hope for survival – and escape – was to play along with these people. For good or ill, he was going to have to mentor another Pretender until the opportunity presented itself to free both himself AND the Pretender from servitude – which meant that he'd have to find some way to undermine this Pretender's rebellion just enough to keep them both alive until help could arrive.
Jarod and Miss Parker would be coming to work tomorrow morning – they would most likely be in the same building. He would have to hang his hopes on their talent for uncovering inconvenient truths – namely his own capture and incarceration – and Jarod's talent for flexibility during complex SIMs. A rescue of more than just a stolen Pretender hadn't been in the plans – but would hopefully not complicate things beyond possibility.
oOoOo
"C'mon, kid. Up and at 'em. Time to go back to work."
Cancer stifled a groan of both pain and disappointment. His sleep had been restless from the pain in his back, and his meditations before then had been futile. His new space had very little to work with as far as tools to help him from the land of the living – and his mind was clouded to nearly non-functional with hunger and fatigue. And now they wanted him back on his feet in front of that white board?
Perhaps that was for the best – he'd never last the entire day in silent refusal. Even as he tried to push himself to a sitting position on the thin mattress, his head was spinning viciously. He was nearing the end of his limits – his physical body was betraying him now, making him weak. Of course, he could just let himself slip into unconsciousness and refuse to awaken…
Then he gave a real grunt of surprise and pain as the muscular men who were his constant escort to and from that infernal room with its white board dragged him up by his arms. His feet refused to cooperate in walking, so his toes half-dragged against the carpet of the corridor except for those few times he could get his feet ahead of his legs. He couldn't bring himself to raise his head anymore, and didn't even bother to try. He was defeated physically, although his determination to be steadfast in his refusal to cooperate was undaunted.
It was a trek he'd made all too many times, and being positioned on his feet next to the white board was a challenge to his burly handlers. "I don't know the kid can stand by himself," the second one complained to someone in the room – Cancer had neither the energy to see who was being spoken to nor the interest. He wasn't interested in anything anymore.
"THIS is the person you're expecting me to work with?"
That was a new voice – an outraged voice – and Cancer lifted his head without really being able to focus his gaze clearly. Everything now was a blur – but there was a new personality in the mix. The dynamics of the situation had just abruptly changed.
He had to work hard not to scream out in pain when there was suddenly an arm about his waist, pressing hard on some of the most painful places on his back where he'd been beaten. What little strength he'd had to try to keep himself upright in the grasp of the handlers evaporated, and he sagged against this new person.
"What the Hell have you done to him?" the accented and thoroughly furious voice demanded next as Cancer felt himself carefully and slowly lowered to the floor and laid out prone. The pressure of the floor on his back made him whimper automatically, and then gentle hands were turning him – pulling the shirt away from the torn flesh. There was a horrified gasp. "Don't you know that this kind of treatment only turns a Pretender inwards on himself?" the voice scolded someone else vigorously. "You're lucky this young man hasn't simply willed himself dead. They can do that, you know…"
Cancer was astonished – whoever this person was, he knew what his plans had been as if he'd faced something very similar before. Who WAS this man?
"I cannot work with a Pretender who's on death's door," the accented voice continued. "If you want anything out of him, he needs immediate emergency medical treatment – and sufficient time to recover from this obscene abuse that his mind can clear."
"You're not the one issuing orders here, Doctor," came a voice Cancer had heard at least twice before – both times before terrible things had happened.
"You want my help – brought me here to give your failing attempt to work with a Pretender a fighting chance – well then give me the resources I need to work with. A dying Pretender is both a waste of a valuable human treasure to you and my time and, I suppose, my life. If you're going to abuse him to death, you might as well kill me now too – because neither of us will be of any use to you and your precious project with the time limit will end up going down the drain." Whoever this man was, he knew how to argue with these people effectively too. Cancer could appreciate the logic being used – in another time and place, he would have made the same arguments himself. "Make your choice."
Cancer tried to force his voice and body into movement to object to the idea of being "made useful." This man had said something to the effect that his life would be forfeit if he managed to die after all – and he hadn't intended that his plan to remove himself from suffering would cause harm to another. But all he could do was moan softly again. "Shhhh… Jarod…" the accented voice sounded close to his ear. "Be still." Cancer felt the man straighten up again and face off against those in authority. "What is it going to be?"
Jarod? The man had called him "Jarod?"
"Do it." McKenna's voice ordered finally – and then the new man was bending over him again.
"Lie still – they'll come for you with a gurney and take you to get medical attention. I'll be right here with you." Cancer felt a gentle hand brush his forehead. "Hang on."
"You and I need to have a little talk, Doctor," McKenna's voice demanded in a low and deadly tone.
"Then talk to me here," Cancer heard "Doctor" reply. "I'm not leaving this young man's side until I can see that he's getting quality medical treatment for the gashes in his back and the infection that is present in many of the deeper cuts."
"We will not have you issuing orders around here – is that understood?" McKenna hissed, having moved closer to "Doctor" so that his lowered voice wouldn't be overheard by others.
"What I understand," "Doctor" retorted, "is that I'm here to help this Pretender solve your project difficulties. I know what I need – am I to grovel to get it? I will…" "Doctor's" voice came now from a short distance away – and a height much closer to Cancer's position on the floor. "This young man is dying – and it is the result of the beatings he has received. I cannot resolve your problem for you if he dies. Please. Give him the treatment he needs quickly, before he wills himself dead."
"He wouldn't dare," McKenna scoffed.
"He would," "Doctor" replied bluntly, "and he would be successful in very short order. And where would your project be then?"
There was a long silence – and Cancer wished that his eyes were working. He wanted to see this person who was suddenly advocating for him – to tell him not to bother, that he would never cooperate. Then McKenna said, "You're getting what you demanded – but it will be your LAST demand. From now on, you will request – and you will send your requests to me personally. Demands will be met with severe consequences – do you understand?"
Cancer felt himself lifted and placed on a much softer surface. He strained to hear the end of the exchange between his advocate and his tormentor. "Agreed," the accented voice of "Doctor" capitulated. "May I go now, and accompany my protégé while he gets treated for his abuse?"
Cancer groaned as the surface under him began to move – jarring him slightly and making one of the gashes that had wound around his waist slightly press into the stiff fabric covering the mattress. "Go," he heard McKenna say from a distance away, and then there was a gentle hand taking and holding his.
"What's his name?" his advocate asked of the people around him.
"Adam," someone replied – it sounded like one of the muscular handlers who had been escorting him to and from the white board room. "I heard Mr. McKenna call him Adam one time."
"Adam," "Doctor" leaned over the gurney and brushed a gentle hand across the young man's brow once more. "My name is Sydney – and it appears that I'm going to be taking care of you for a while."
As much as Cancer had never wanted to submit to this kind of treatment in his life, this was NOT how things were supposed to go. "Nooooo…" he whimpered soundlessly. His body was too weak to resist whatever they were going to do to him – and this man knew the inner workings of his mind far too well. All his efforts were going to amount to nothing.
He was doomed.