A/N: We continue our second arc, still easing in, establishing our characters and plot. Spoiler: I was joking about Zarnow's probes — or we can say they're metaphorical.


The Missionary


Don't say you love me when it's just a rumor
Don't say a word if there is any doubt.
Sometimes I think that love is just a tumor;
you've got to cut it out

You say you're sorry for the things that you've done.
You say you're sorry but you know you don't mean it.
I wouldn't worry. I had so much fun.
Sometimes I almost feel just like a human being

— Elvis Costello, Lipstick Vogue


Chapter Eight: Welcome to Falsehood


It was a sunny, blue-skyed day in Burbank — a Friday, late September 2022.

Sunlight, mellowed by the onset of what counted as a fall in Burbank, lit the courtyard in front of Chuck's apartment with tendrils of golden light. Other renters were up and about, grabbing the morning paper, dog walking, heading to work. Music, faint, was playing in someone's apartment, Neil Young's Harvest Moon.

Farther away, past the buildings and the parking lot, was the street, already full of traffic. Burbank was moving, starting the day, going places.

But not Chuck. He stood listening to faint music, his phone in his hand.

But there's a full moon risin'
Let's go dancin' in the light
We know where the music's playin'
Let's go out and feel the night.

The song dimmed the daylight, made Chuck sad and angry.

He'd just called Big Mike and resigned from the Buy More. Big Mike wept. Chuck had been planning to make the call for a long time, just waiting for a new job to come along. He had always wished he could avoid it. But he had also imagined that the sadness of quitting would be buoyed up by the excitement of his new life.

But this was not what he had in mind. He'd imagined his new life differing from his old by degree — not by kind.

He was standing beside the courtyard fountain, its omnipresent gurgle somehow reflecting Neil Young's moon.

Chuck noticed that Sarah had come outside, stood beside him, her gaze trailing his.

"So, you no longer belong to the Buy More. A free agent?"

Chuck looked at her, turning his head but not his body. "Some freedom. I'm one misstep away from becoming government property or dead. I'm maybe not a prisoner, in bonds, but I'm not exactly free. You two are here, and I'm sure that wherever I go, one or both of you goes."

Sarah nodded but said nothing. She stared at the fountain and heard faint music playing.

The bustle in the courtyard struck her as new: if anything like it happened around her apartment in DC, she'd never noticed it. The neighbor walking his pug stopped to scratch his stomach, and the pug scratched too, behind its ear. The woman who grabbed her paper had gotten engrossed in the headline, and so kept standing, immobile, in the doorway of her apartment, oblivious to her robe hanging open, the visibility of her stained lace nightie and hairy legs.

The fountain freshened the scene, making its dailyness unprecedented.

The sun was warm and Sarah lifted her face to it, bathing in its soft light like warm water from a showerhead, eyes closed.

She realized what she was doing, and opened her eyes to see Chuck watching her intently. He turned away when she saw him.

"So, what should we do?" Chuck asked her. "Are we just waiting on orders?"

Sarah nodded again. "Yes, this is the stuff of the spy life. Waiting. We wait. Sometimes for nothing. But today, there'll be something. My guess is that between the CIA and the NSA, an army of analysts and others are following orders having to do with you, although they don't know that. We need a place for you to work and a place for Casey. We need covers.

"You should start thinking about your sister and her boyfriend. What are you going to tell them? Obviously, you can't make specific plans until we hear something, but you should at least prepare yourself…"

"Prepare myself?" Chuck asked without understanding.

"To lie, Chuck. You aren't going to be able to tell them what's really going on. For their safety. If you want to hide in plain sight, you have to hide in plain sight. Lying is now the standing order of your day, I'm afraid." She saw him blanch and she felt for him. It was obvious that he was by nature a truth-teller. Welcome to Falsehood, Chuck.

"That's what you do, right? Lie? Like yesterday?" The look in your eyes as you unbuttoned — pretended to unbutton — your shirt.

Sarah was afraid he would go on, recount details, but he didn't. He waited for her to respond.

"We need to put that behind us, Chuck. I know this sounds…stupid…but it wasn't personal. Do you understand?"

He looked at her in cool disbelief. The music had stopped playing.

"Not personal? You were going to kill me. What could be more personal than that? If you mean that you weren't doing it out of hatred for me, sure, I get that. But I wouldn't have been any less dead for all that. Maybe it was professional for you — and may God have mercy on your soul — but it was as personal as it gets for me. Not to mention what led up to it. You were faking but I — "

Chuck stopped, staring hard at her; he'd embarrassed himself. Sarah glanced away, easing the moment for him — and for her. She wanted to say something but had no idea what it was, how to say it. Moments like this were not in her skill set.

At that moment, Casey came walking back to the apartment. He'd gone to his car to get his things, and was returning, carrying a duffle bag and a briefcase. Chuck had given him a visitor's pass to put on the dash of his car so that he could park in the apartment complex's lot. He'd parked on a distant street last night.

Casey was puffing a little and sweaty when he reached them. He put the bag and briefcase down, pulled a graying handkerchief from his back pocket, and mopped his forehead. "Nice place, Bartowski. I wouldn't mind having one of them pugs, you know, if I didn't have to travel for work." Casey glanced around, his survey stalling for a moment on the neighbor with the newspaper and the visible nightie.

Casey's comment seemed so ordinary but the job Casey was describing was so unordinary that Chuck laughed, despite his foul and befouling mood. Casey seemed pleased that Chuck laughed. He took a deep breath and picked up his things. "Shower time."

He went inside.

Sarah turned to go inside too. She could think of nothing useful say to Chuck.

"Agent Walker — "

Sarah turned to face him. "Sarah, Chuck, call me Sarah."

He frowned. "Agent Walker, knowing what you now know about the situation, my situation, would you still kill me if Graham issued a termination order?"

She took a breath. The breath hitched but she did not think Chuck noticed. I'm not sure I would have killed you last night. "Let's not trade what-ifs, Chuck. Let's stick to the present, the task at hand."

This time, Chuck nodded but did not speak.


It was a little after midday when the orders arrived. The day was crawling by, every tick of the clock in the living room audible to everyone in the apartment.

Sarah got hers on her phone, and Casey his on his. They were both assigned to Burbank, to an operation whose code name was Overlook. No date was given for the assignment to end.

Sarah knew details would follow when Graham called her, and that she would find out more at the video conference that night, but as she stared at her phone, her orders had a strange finality about them.

They seemed less like orders and more like a vague prophecy, oracular.

A new computer arrived by delivery.

The delivery men were UPS, but they boxed up and took the old computer away. Chuck had tinkered with the old one for a while in the late morning but declared it beyond salvage.

Chuck warmed a chicken and broccoli casserole for lunch, and Sarah ate some. It was delicious, although she could not remember eating a casserole since she had been a kid at her grandmother's house. When Sarah had been with her dad, they ate on the road, fast food, or convenience stores, normally eating in the car. Her life in the CIA was mostly the same.

The three of them sat down at the larger dining table. Chuck put out plates, silverware, glasses. The heated casserole he placed in the center of the table, careful to put down a cloth first, so the table would not be burned. Sarah knew all this was just what people like Chuck did, that they had family meals, that the meals were small but focal events that punctuated the day, and served to do more than cope with physical hunger.

The table was in a sense the hearth, the heart of the home. People gathered around it to reconnect with one another, to reaffirm that they belonged, that they belonged to that place and to each other.

But that was not true of the three of them.

They each had their own agendas, Sarah knew, and mistrust, not trust, permeated the atmosphere. She felt a pang of regret. It would have been nice to be seated at that table, feeling like she belonged.

She ignored the pang and ate her casserole.

The clock ticked. No one spoke.


Sarah's phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket and walked down the hallway to Ellie's room to answer. She shut the door.

"Walker, secure."

"Hello, Agent. I'm calling as a follow-up to your orders, and to prep you for the video feed tonight. Has the new computer arrived?

She knew that he knew it had. "Yes, sir."

"Good, have Bartowski get it set up; we'll use it for our video conference tonight. It can be his first CIA task. When is Bartowski's sister and her boyfriend due back in town?"

"Sunday evening."

"Ok. Dr. Zarnow is on his way to you now. He left early this morning and should be arriving at the Burbank airport in a few minutes. He'll have lab space at Providence St. Joseph, Room 2023. You are to take Bartowski to 2022 after the video conference. Security cameras on that floor will be off. There are none in the stairwells. Be sure to collect the laptop Bartowski uses when he finishes.

"Zarnow is not allowed to see Bartowski — no matter what. He will conduct the examination via computer, Zarnow in one room, Chuck in the other. No video, no audio, just typed text. I trust Zarnow but Beckman doesn't. I'll tell Bartowski more about it before he goes. Video conference will be at 6 pm, your time."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you making some headway with Bartowski, mending fences?"

"Mending fences, sir? He's not an old friend I fell out of touch with." I don't have any of those. Well, maybe one. "He was my mark last night, and marked for termination. Mending fences is a long way off. Right now, he doubts I'm human. But at least he's tolerating my presence."

"Don't underestimate your gifts, Agent."

Don't talk about my gifts, Graham. "Right, sir."

"Bartowski may be rattled by Zarnow's examination, — and by what Zarnow may tell him afterward. Bartowski survived the pairing, obviously, but Zarnow's pessimistic about Bartowski's long-term prospects. Whether Zarnow's right to be pessimistic or not time will tell, maybe something will show itself in the exam, — but Zarnow is the expert. I gave Zarnow permission to share his worry. Even if Zarnow is wrong, the worry should make Bartowski easier to control, and more dependent on us. Be prepared to comfort Bartowski, sympathize with him. It may prove to be a moment during which you can do some substantial fence-mending. Zarnow hasn't told this to Beckman, so Casey won't know about it. I'm giving you an advantage."

Sarah had not considered the long-term effects of the Intersect. Since the pairing seemed to work or be working, she assumed all was good. Evidently not.

"I'll be available to him." Fooling him again — but will he believe me this time?

"Fine. Call me later, after the examination, the fallout, if any. From your apartment. Use my personal number. I'll be at home. I've been in this office for hours and I plan to go home after the video conference."

"Right. I will."


Casey left the apartment to go in search of more cigars. The one he swallowed and unswallowed the night before had been his last. He wasn't happy about leaving Walker alone with Bartowski, but from what he could tell about the strain between them, Walker was unlikely to make any inroads while Casey found cigars.

His phone rang as he pulled into a cigar shop not far from Bartowski's apartment.

Beckman.

"Casey, secure."

"Good afternoon, Agent. How are things with the Intersect?"

"Okay. I think I'm winning him over. It helps that he's got no use for Walker."

"Very good. Graham talked to Walker, did she tell you about Zarnow?"

"Yes, she did. Bartowski's still pale, I think. His sister may be a doctor, but I gather he doesn't like them much. — Do we trust Zarnow, ma'am?"

"No, we don't. He's CIA all the way, a Graham crony from way back. I suspect that he and Graham have talked about this without me present. I know it. So, watch it all closely."

"Should I stay in the exam room? I doubt Bartowski's gonna want to share his lilly-white ass with me — or, especially, Walker."

"It's not that kind of exam. The other end. And, no, neither of you can be in the room during the exam, for fear of influencing the Intersect, polluting responses. I fought Graham and Zarnow on that but they insisted, and, at the end of the day, Zarnow is the doctor."

"Alright. But we'll keep Bartowski under lock and key otherwise."

"Fine, but don't make the lock and key too obvious. Technically, he's not our prisoner. We want him to feel like an agent."

Casey chuckled, a low rumble. "Turning that guy into a spy will take alchemy, lead into gold."

Beckman's voice became insistent, corrective. "The Intersect is alchemy, Agent. Don't forget that. We're in the land of myth and giants now. Forget what you think you know. Otherwise, Bartowski, the Intersect, will steal a march on you."

Chastened, Casey sat up straighter in the driver's seat. "Noted. I'll be watchful."

Beckman ended the call and Casey went inside, into the humidor, and took a long whiff before beginning to consider the choices.


Chuck finished setting up the computer and making sure everything was correct. The computer already had CIA software on it.

Casey sat and watched Chuck as he worked, so he didn't get a chance to tinker much, but he was able to get everything prepared for the conference. Sarah was in the other room, emailing her report to Graham.

Chuck pushed his bed back to make room for the three of them to sit in chairs — imported from the dining room — for the meeting.

The sunlight outside had become more golden, softer. Chuck's heart was thumping.

He had not-lost last night — but the game was just beginning. That much was clear. A day of agents in his apartment, taking calls outside or behind closed doors made it clear.

He had made his opening move last night. Now it was time to find out what the CIA/NSA counter would be.


The new computer screen lit up, this time with the seal of the NSA. Beckman was seated at the desk — in her office, it seemed — and Graham was in a chair pulled beside her.

"Good evening, Overlook Team," Graham began, "I take it the new computer is working?"

Chuck glanced at Sarah but she nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good," Beckman responded. "Let's get right to it. We have been working assiduously all day, many hands busy, and here is what we have created.

She rubbed her small hands together. "The apartment complex you live in, Mr. Bartowski, needed a new on-site manager. Agent Casey, although he does not yet know it, has applied for and accepted the job." Casey grunted. "The job comes with an apartment as a perk, and Agent Casey will be living in it. It's the apartment at the front of the complex, perfectly placed to keep an eye on things.

"Nearer your apartment is a currently empty apartment — "

"Right, Mrs. Klonsky's place," Chuck interrupted softly, "the other side of the fountain." His tone grew sad. "She passed away a couple of weeks ago and her family only emptied the place a few days ago."

"Yes, that will be where Agent Walker will live. — But she will not take up residence there yet. For now, she stays where Graham put her.

"We need to think about how to make all this believable for your sister and her boyfriend. From what we know about your sister, she is a very intelligent woman. Making her believe this will be partly a matter of our planning, but mostly a matter of you making her believe it, Mr. Bartowski. And she needs to believe it, for her own safety."

Sarah glanced at Chuck. He seemed to be making a point of not glancing at her. He nodded his head reluctantly. "Good. We have found office space not far from your apartment. It is on the fourth floor of the Marshall Building. — Do you know it?"

Chuck thought for a moment. "Yeah, there are a couple of doctor's offices there on the first floor, a dentist and a chiropractor, lawyers and accountants and architects upstairs?"

"That's it. There are two stairways and two elevators. The office space has a small front room and a larger room in the rear. Big windows, I'm told. Agent Walker's cover will be as your assistant."

Chuck's face fell. "But how am I supposed to make Ellie believe all that? Casey, sure. The last manager was a creep anyway, Ellie will welcome Casey with open arms." He paused, pursed his lips, shifted his eyes to Casey, then away. "So to speak. — But office space, an assistant? I've been saving money, but Ellie's seen my bank account…"

"So have we, Mr. Bartowski. — You will tell your sister that a wealthy customer — a woman, a widow, Ms. Seil, — came into the Buy More to see about a phone repair. This happened weeks ago.

"You helped her and began to talk, befriended her. She found out about your background at Stanford. Remembering you, she stopped by to talk to you again. Then, a couple of weeks ago, she came by and talked to you about a small tech business start-up, producing apps for phones. She offered you the job as lead programmer, and then she hired an assistant for you. — You've kept all this a secret because at first, you didn't think anything would come of it — and then, because you wanted it to be a surprise. The office is now set up and Sarah has been hired. You start Monday."

"But won't I need to produce the owner, the wealthy woman, at some point?"

Beckman smiled. "Perhaps, and we will produce her if necessary. The main thing is that you get your sister caught up in your excitement about the new job. She knew you were hoping to find a new job, a new place?"

"Yes, she did."

"Good, use that to make what you tell her believable. The best lie hugs the truth as close as it can."

Sarah felt Chuck's eyes shift to her but she kept her eyes on the screen.

Beckman continued. "The office space should be set up by Sunday midday, before your sister returns. So call her and tell her to meet you there. Tell her you have a surprise. It'll be easier to believe when it seems a fait accompli."

Chuck shook his head. These people were untruth experts. "Okay, okay. What's the woman's name again, her full name, my benefactress?"

"Cassandra Seil. We have already created her as an online presence, so you will be able to use that to make your story more plausible, just in case your sister wants to know more. Seil is a tech entrepreneur with numerous business successes to her name. She also has a reputation for eccentricity."

"And Sarah — why did Mrs. Seil hire Sarah?"

"She has degrees from UCLA in programming and marketing. We've created an online presence for her too. Social media, and so on."

Chuck looked at Sarah again. "Congratulations."

Sarah nodded but did not react. It took all her self-control to disguise her mounting panic. Stuck in the same office, day by day. The two of us. What is Graham doing to me?

"Agent Walker can help you flesh this all out. She has a gift for covers, Mr. Bartowski," Graham added, "she's not just a chameleon; she's protean."

Casey scoffed softly. Chuck muttered under his breath. "Yeah, like Empusa."

Sarah caught the name but did not know it.

"Wait," Chuck said, putting up his hand, "Morgan Grimes, my friend, my coworker at the Buy More, he saw me meet Sarah, agree to a date, leave with her. How are we to explain that? Morgan talks. He'll tell Ellie that."

"Tell him, tell them, it was a coincidence. Coincidences happen all the time and this one is part of your cover — think of it as a business meet-cute. Sarah moved to town for this job and did not realize she accidentally met her boss, and asked him out. On the date, you two figured it out and Sarah decided at the date's end you should just be friends since you were going to be working together."

Chuck huffed. "That coincidences happen all the time doesn't make any particular one likely. — But, I guess that Agent Walker would decide we are just friends is the only truly believable part of this cover —"

"So, after we finish here," Graham continued, breaking into Chuck's commentary, "you will go to see Dr. Zarnow. Except we are not going to let him see you. He will conduct the examination from one room while you are in the next room. You will communicate via computer, typed questions, typed answers. We want to disguise even your voice."

"Like when Ellie texts me from the kitchen?" Chuck asked, grinning. Sarah grinned too.

Graham ignored Chuck. "It is crucial that you answer Zarnow's questions truthfully and completely, to the best of your ability. Zarnow will be evaluating the state of the pairing and its effects on you."

"He can do that by text? Am I supposed to send him emojis?"

"No, just answer. No one in the world knows more about the Intersect than Zarnow. That means that, in a sense, no one knows more about you, Mr. Bartowski."

Chuck had no reply to that.

"Zarnow will report to me after the meeting. No reason for any of you to do so," Graham said with a small smile. "We will talk again tomorrow."

Liar, Sarah thought, but she kept her face composed.


Shadows were stretching, darkening when they walked to the car. The man with the pug was out again, and he was walking his dog, but neither seemed itchy this time. People were home from work. Smells of meals wafted out of apartment windows.

Casey had eaten the last half of the lunchtime chicken casserole for dinner. Neither Chuck nor Sarah was hungry. Sarah was trying not to think ahead to the cover, trying not to worry about how long she would be in Burbank. She had always known the day would come when she failed to secure a mission objective. It didn't matter how balanced or quick a person was, somedays the world, the accumulated circumstances, just bucked too hard for anyone to stay in the saddle. But she had never imagined a failure she would have to live with as she would live with this one.

She had been prepared — probably, maybe — to kill a good man. And that good man believed she had been prepared to kill him. She had been careful to avoid good people over the years. Her father had taught her to be skeptical of them, to find their goodness all superficial, a strategy, not a reality. But over the years, she had seen through her father's skepticism. She knew there were genuinely good people out there. She had encountered a few but she had never sought them out, never spent time with them. To do so would have meant facing herself, would have required her to measure the gulf between who she was and who they were. Their mere existence felt like a judgment on her.

Chuck felt like a judgment on her. And she knew he had judged her, weighed her, as it were, and found her sadly wanting. Doubtfully human — that was the way she expressed Chuck's judgment to Graham.


Chuck saw Sarah's face as she climbed into the car; he could see that she was thinking, frowning. He wondered what kinds of things a person like her thought about. How could she visit memories, given what she had to remember? How could she enjoy hope, given the life that was ahead of her? Chuck had no idea how her life could be anything but hopeless. Still, she went on, did her job, followed her orders. There was a certain Stoicism, a certain British Empire stiff-upper-lipness about it, Chuck conceded. Ours is not to reason why. — But it was. We weren't given reason so it could molder in us, unused. Human beings are responsible beings. There was no way to outrun that fact, no way to shift responsibility onto someone else. How could she be willing to just do whatever — whatever — Langston Graham told her to do?

How does she live with herself? How can I live with her, work with her, lie to my sister about her?

He let the questions go. No answers were forthcoming. Now he had to face Zarnow. He put all questions of Sarah out of his mind.

He realized as he shut the car door (he was in the back this time, Sarah driving, Casey beside her) that the Intersect had been quiet since breakfast, since providing Casey's Cheerios with a blood-red backdrop.

Since then, nothing.

He didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing.


Providence St. Joseph's Medical Center was more a campus than a single building, although the flat gray-white architecture and many greenish-tinted windows were a motif for all the buildings.

The tallest building had white glass crosses, lit from behind, on its facade, a nod, if to nothing higher, then to history, and to the fact that the Sisters of Providence had founded it in 1943.

Chuck had been to the hospital a few times over the years, twice with Morgan, when Morgan had needed to have his stomach pumped after particularly poisonous encounters with the crisper in the Buy More break room refrigerator. Chuck had come once for a dislocated finger, again Morgan's fault, when Morgan had slammed a Buy More delivery truck door on Chuck's hand. That was the most recent visit, several months ago now.

Sarah parked the car in one of the two parking decks. She and Casey had been talking about room numbers and entrances. Casey had out his phone and was pointing to the door they should use.

Chuck's nerves were jangling, distracting him. Still, he noticed the appreciative glances Sarah drew. Even in a bandana and jeans, she was loveliness in person.

And death in person.

They walked to the door Casey chose, climbed upstairs to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, Sarah cracked the door and pointed to the room Zarnow was supposed to be in. Casey nodded and crossed to the room, checked the hallway, opened the door.

A couple of minutes later, he came back to the stairwell door. "Zarnow's in there. No windows, no cameras. I made him give me his phone, too." Casey grinned as if he'd outsmarted someone. "I'm going back."

Casey crossed back to the door and went inside after gesturing to Sarah. She reached back, still looking through the crack in the door, and grabbed Chuck's hand. He jumped when she touched him; she felt it. He heard the resulting frown in her voice. "C'mon."

She led Chuck quickly down the hall and to the room next to the one Casey entered.

Inside, the room was empty except for a foldout table, a chair beneath it, and a laptop on top of it. There was a large, round, institutional clock on the wall. Sarah dropped Chuck's hand.

"Okay, Chuck. Sit down. I'll go tell Zarnow you are ready. He'll start, ask the first question."

Chuck jerked his head, attempting to nod, but Sarah could tell how anxious he was. It was like the night before, his hand shaking as he held the phone. She knew something about hands shaking. She reached out and took his hand, ignoring the expression on his face.

"It'll be okay."

He frowned at her but sat down.


Sarah left the room.

Chuck sat for a moment, waiting.

The laptop was on, the screen bright.

Words appeared on the screen.

Hello, I am Dr. Zarnow. You have been told about me. I have been told about you, in a general way. This arrangement is for your safety, and I suppose mine too.

You are the Intersect?


Chuck typed a response below the question.

Yes.


How do you feel, physically? Have you had headaches today, felt groggy?


No. I feel fine. Tired, but I was up late last night.


So I understand. Again, without any real details. You should not provide me with any. How do you feel, psychologically? Have you been depressed today, aimless, unable to focus?


No. I had visions, pictures in my head this morning, but actually, I haven't had any more all day. Should I be worried?


Understand that we are in theoretical territory. We've never had someone reach the point you are currently at. All theory, no practice. Our models suggest that after an initial, probably rather spectacular pairing, the Intersect will be — or will seem — quiescent.

The Intersect is still working, but not in a way that is obtruding on your consciousness. Think of it as making connections, thousands and thousands of connections, integrating with your neural architecture. Growing into you as you grow into it.

What was the pairing like?


Terrifying. Miraculous. It was like being present at that "Let there be light"-moment in Genesis. Except it was like being there and being the One who turned on the big light.


A few moments passed. Then Zarnow responded:

Amazing. I can't tell you how amazing that is. To know it worked!


Yes, amazing, but I need to know more about it, and what it, I, can do.


Of course, forgive me. It's maddening to be so close to the realization of my life's work, the fulfillment of a dream, and still not be allowed to see you.

Let me try to help you. Tell me, are the data presentations, the visions, caused by external stimuli, or can you initiate them at will, internally, ask yourself questions, as it were, that the Intersect answers?


Both.


Amazing. We expected the first but only hoped for the second. And, as I understand it, the Intersect defends itself against attack.


Yes.

Chuck started to tell him about the songs, the Heidegger book, the anticipations before the pairing, but then he stopped. Need-to-know.


The Intersect foresaw terrorist activity and was able to prevent it, is that right?


Chuck left out the details.

Yes.


I am going to show you some images. Tell me the words that come to mind in each case.


Okay.


An image appeared, a map of an unidentified city, all street names and landmark names removed.


Chuck typed.

Mumbai, India. Trident Nariman Point Hotel. CIA Agent Glasken executed in Room 676 two months ago. No current leads. Probability: investigate his previous partner, CIA Agent Smithers.


Another image appeared, a woman's face, with beautiful dark hair and eyes.

Giselle Manchun. German-born terrorist and assassin. Radicalized in Iran. Believed dead in an explosion in the Middle East. Unlikely. Probability: Death was faked to gain freedom from constant US/Israel pursuit. Look for her back in Germany, hiding in her hometown, Messkirch.


It went on like that for a while, half an hour. Then, instead of an image, more typing:

Does this phrase mean anything to you? "Colorless green ideas sleep furiously"?


Chuck thought he felt something, like a minuscule click in the back of his mind, and he waited for a vision, some other response.

But nothing happened, and, after a moment, he wasn't sure he had felt anything at all.

He heard something behind him and turned to look at the clock. It might only have been the clock ticking.

No, nothing.


Okay, that's good, actually. That was a failsafe. It would only have created a response if there was a problem.


A problem?

Chuck felt his chest tighten.


Yes, I'm afraid that although you successfully paired with the Intersect, we have no clear sense of what your prognosis might be. The fact that you paired successfully makes me optimistic, but the fact that you are the only one who has, and the severe results the others who tried suffered, makes me pessimistic about how long you can live with the Intersect without either becoming physically ill or slipping into some form of psychopathy.


Prognosis? Psychopathy?


Yes, our newest models suggest that the longer the Intersect is hosted, the less its host will be able to feel empathy, sympathy, remorse, and it will start to cause antisocial behavior.


So, you're telling me that, over time, instead of me humanizing the machine, the machine will mechanize me?


We aren't certain, but that is our fear, yes. — The models we ran, after the final modifications of the program, suggested potential problems. You and only you have the version with the final modifications.


But couldn't they turn out to be beneficial, instead of harmful modifications?


Yes, possibly, but we're talking about a degree of fine-grainedness here that staggers current technology. Even when we think we have made only minor adjustments, they sometimes prove major or prove to have consequences of a form we could not foresee.

The basic problem is that despite all the brave, knowing talk about the brain as a computer, the brain is not remotely a computer. The brain is not digital — but it's not analog either. It has digital and analog features but it is neither. It's the brain. Everything is what it is and not another thing. Putting a computer into the brain is exiling a stranger in an even stranger land. — Somehow, with you, it worked, so far. But — well, there's no way to know for sure.

You will need to let me know if you start to have prolonged headaches, or if you begin to feel 'out of step' with people, as if you or they don't make sense, if, for instance, you begin to lose your ability to recognize feelings in other people's faces.

I'm sorry to tell you this, and I promise, I will be back at work on all this, as soon as I get to DC.

Remember to contact me if you need me, anytime.

There was a pause.

Good luck.


Thanks.


Chuck sat back, stunned. He lost track of how long he sat there.

Eventually, the door opened and Sarah came in. She looked at Chuck, and then her face showed concern. At least I recognized her expression.

"Casey's walking Zarnow out, making sure Zarnow's gone. Casey'll meet us at the car. — Is everything alright, Chuck, are you okay?" She gathered his computer, handed it to him to carry.

"Yes, everything's fine." I can't talk about this with her, about maybe going crazy to the woman who was going to kill me.

Sarah was unconvinced, he could tell, but she did not push him. "Are you good to go? We should get you back to the apartment. You've had a big day."

Chuck stood up. Sarah smiled at him for the first time since they climbed together into her backseat the night before. She smiled — and he knew he couldn't believe her smile.


They climbed down the stairs to the parking deck door. As she reached out for the door, Sarah stopped, stiffened.

"What?" Chuck asked.

She turned, her face pale. "I'm a fool. Graham's a fool. — Why did Zarnow fly across the country to conduct an interview that could have been done by text? Your joke was right…"

And then they heard footsteps, someone running, shoes hard-slapping the concrete.

They heard Casey's voice: "Walker? Where are you?"

"Stay behind me, Chuck," Sarah commanded. She reached back and swept Chuck behind her and threw the door open, producing a gun from her purse — all of it somehow a single fluid motion. Cautiously, they stepped from the stairwell.

Casey was sprinting toward them, arms flying, blood on his face and on his wrinkled suit.


A/N: Tune in next week for more. Chapter Nine: Living and Dying.