3

SOUTH DAKOTA

WAREHOUSE 13

"Alright, Claudia," said Artie through the Farnsworth, "you should just about be there."

"What's the name of this aisle I'm looking for?"

Artie cleared his throat. "I told you. The Aisle of Lonely Souls."

Claudia looked down at Artie's face in the Farnsworth. "That's the actual name?"

"If I tell you the actual name are you going to remember it?"

"Doubtful," she replied, continuing deeper into the vast, maze-like layout of the Warehouse. "So is this some sort of commentary on my complete and utter lack of a social life, Artie? Because if so, you probably could have found a more tactful . . ." She trailed off as she entered the designated aisle. "Alright, I'm here," she said, eyeing the nearest artifacts, scanning the informational readouts next to each. "What am I supposed to be doing exactly?"

"Ah." Artie's face drew closer in the Farnsworth and his voice took on the tone he used when something that Claudia was sure to find incredibly dull totally excited him. "Well then," he said, "some of the artifacts in the Warehouse need . . . more attention than others. They like to be noticed. Acknowledged. Remembered. They want to know someone is thinking about them. And if they're left alone too long, they get, ahem, irritable."

"Aww, you never told me you were an artifact, Artie. So what exactly am I supposed to do? Talk to them? Tell them stories? Give them hugs?"

"No. No! Don't touch them. They're artifacts. Unstable ones at that. Just, you know, be yourself. Spend a few minutes of your time there. Let them feel your presence. Take inventory."

"Uh-huh." Claudia glanced at a few of the artifacts on the shelf beside her. A baseball glove. A pair of champagne glasses. A rectangular glass window resting upright on the shelf. She moved closer. That was interesting. "Why couldn't you be the one to come down here and keep the lonely artifacts company?"

"Oh no, not me," said Artie. "No, a couple of the artifacts down there and I do not get along."

"What? No!" Claudia feigned shock. "And you with that charming personality of yours?"

Artie opened his mouth to retort, then growled and grumbled, and instead said, "Normally Leena takes care of the more delicate tasks like this, alright? But she isn't here today, okay? So you're taking care of it. And also because I said so. Pretend they're plants or something."

"Artie, I kill plants."

"Goodbye, Claudia."

"Did you send me down here just to get rid of me?"

Artie's face disappeared and the Farnsworth screen went dark.

"Fine then." She stuck her tongue out at the blank screen and razzberried.

Tucking the Farnsworth away, she glanced around. On the shelf near her head, her eyes fell once more on the empty baseball glove.

"Strange," she said. "Suddenly, I really want to play catch."

Shaking her head, she walked a few steps and stood before the window that she'd noticed earlier. It was about two feet wide and four feet tall, and consisted of two parts; the lower portion was meant to slide up and open. It was framed in aged wood painted white and looked as though it belonged in an old house. Her reflection was just visible looking back at her in the glass pane — bright red hair with a streak of blue. Round, pale face. Presently she stuck her tongue out once more.

She peeked at the screen containing the artifact's information. Emily Dickinson's Bedroom Window. Her lips curled into a grin. "Cool." She leaned closer. Was there something on the other side? It almost appeared to be the outline of a room, eerily familiar. The shadows of furniture, hints of color.

Her next exhale fogged up the glass, obscuring whatever it was that seemed to be right on the other side. "Damn." Without thinking, she reached out and wiped the glass clean with her sleeve. There. Now she could see better. There was definitely something on the other side. It was a room. It looked like . . .

She peered deep within.

It was Artie's office.

# # #

After talking to Claudia and setting down his Farnsworth, Artie crossed from the computer to the filing drawers, which lined the walls from floor to ceiling in one corner of the cluttered Warehouse office. "Charming personality," he said, grumbling. "I'll give her a charming personality." He picked up scattered papers on the nearby tabletop, studied them absently, briefly forgetting what he was looking for. "I can be charming. And where are Pete and Myka?" he asked the empty office. "Bah!" He tossed aside the papers, which weren't what he was looking for, and then yanked open one of the filing drawers. He began to dig through the numerous cards within, still muttering under his breath. Each card was filled with some tidbit, some piece of miscellaneous history, clues to finding artifacts or to understanding them, scraps of historical data, and most of it not making a lick of sense until the moment it did, usually exactly when it was needed. It was the Warehouse catalog from before there were computers. Still superior to computers at times, despite what Claudia would say. That impudent girl! "So much to learn," he muttered, but warmly.

A sudden sharp pain in his upper chest made him wince and grimace. He straightened, and braced himself with one hand on the wall. With the other hand he massaged the left side of his chest. He groaned as the pain receded. He tried to relax. He was tense. Too tense. And irritable. And—

"Ow!"

He staggered as the pain flared again in his chest. His left shoulder and arm began to tingle and ache.

"Okay," he said, beginning to breathe heavy. "This isn't good." He felt his pocket. No phone. He glanced towards the desk, where both his phone and Farnsworth rested. He tried to take a step on wobbly legs. "Not good at all."

Again the pain came.

Artie stumbled and slipped to the floor. His outstretched hand briefly found the edge of the table, scattering papers there as he fell, the sheets floating down to land beside him on the Warehouse floor.

He grimaced as the pain became agonizing. "Not good at all," he groaned.

# # #

"Artie? Artie!"

Claudia staggered, and suddenly was back in the Warehouse, in the Aisle of Lonely Souls. The wood-framed window of Emily Dickinson was just in front of her, returned to plain wood and glass. She'd been looking through it into the Warehouse office. It had felt so real, like she was there. She could see everything so clearly. She could even hear Artie.

Oh no! Artie!

She whipped out her Farnsworth. "Come on, Artie," she pleaded. "Answer." The Farnsworth buzzed and buzzed, unanswered. "Come on, come on, come—"

"What?!"

"Artie!" His face peered up at her, irritated, from the Farnsworth. "Is it really you? Are you okay? I saw you collapse and . . . are you really okay?"

"Whoa, Claudia. Slow down. Take a breath."

"You were having a heart attack. I mean it looked like a heart attack. I mean, I've never actually seen anyone have a heart attack, but I assume it would look like—"

"Claudia! What are you talking about? I didn't—" His eyes narrowed. "What happened exactly? Tell me, exactly."

"I saw you," she said, remembering to breathe now. "You were there in the office. You were going through one of the file drawers, talking out loud to no one by the way, and then you started making noises like you were in pain. You grabbed your chest. You collapsed, Artie."

"What do you mean you saw me? How could you have seen me?"

"I saw—"

"What a minute." His face grew larger in the Farnsworth. "Claudia?"

Sensing that Artie was really okay and that she was now about to be in trouble, Claudia said meekly, "Yes, Artie?"

"Were you looking through Emily Dickinson's Bedroom Window?"

"Umm . . . maybe?"

"Maybe?"

"Maybe yes? Phrasing, by the way, Artie. You make me sound like a huge creep."

"Claudia, Emily Dickinson spent much of her adult life locked away inside her bedroom, never leaving, experiencing only what she could see from that window. She was a very depressed person." Artie shook his head. "All throughout her life, everyone she ever cared about died, one after the other. She stared out that window, watching life happen through it, but no longer taking part. The window has the power to show you people that you care about, but it's imbued with Emily's dark depression. Through the window you see the ones you care about, but it warps the image so that you always see them dying."

"Okay, that is dark."

"But Claudia, Claudia. You know this means, don't you?"

Sensing a trap, she said warily, "The Window's broken?"

"It means that you care, Claudia. That you care for me. That's so sweet." And then Artie began to cackle.

"Okay, Artie. You know what? I was going to tell you to watch your cholesterol and exercise more, but you're probably fine. Have a donut."

She snapped shut the Farnsworth and stared at Emily Dickinson's Bedroom Window. "What are you looking at?" she asked her faint reflection.

###

BERKELEY

"Say that again, Artie." Myka was looking down at the image in the Farnsworth while Pete drove. They were still following Captain Fuller and the other police cruisers.

"I said, there are lots of artifacts that can seem to have multiple effects. The fact that both these incidents involved someone believing someone else was a robot makes me think this is a single artifact."

"But Steve Pouty used the term 'android', Artie."

"Yeah," said Pete, leaning over towards Myka, but keeping his eyes on the road. "And Martin Chambers actually exploded. Nobody imagined that."

"Alright," said Artie. "Clearly it's a little more complex than simply creating robot delusions in the witnesses."

"And androids," Myka added.

"That too. I'll have Claudia look into artifacts that might be connected to robotics"—he peered at Myka through the Farnsworth—"and androids. And also ones that would have the ability to cause someone to explode. Maybe it's some sort of self-fulfilling artifact. What if he exploded because the group chasing him believed that he would?" Now Artie was mostly talking to himself. "Could be something that generates a belief and turns that belief into solid reality." He looked back to Pete and Myka. "Keep me updated on any new developments. Out."

His face vanished from the Farnsworth screen.

Myka closed the device and tucked it away.

"Looks like we're here," said Pete, pulling the SUV into the vast shopping center parking lot. He angled towards where the three police cruisers had just raced to a sudden, tire-squealing stop. "Got here in a lot less than five minutes, too. More like three."

"Pete, look."

Captain Fuller and the other officers exited their vehicles, and now they approached the wide double doors that led into the shopping center. Each of them had their weapon drawn. They hustled into position on either side of the entrance, sending away terrified bystanders with stern get-back waving motions.

Pete parked at the curb behind one of the police cruisers. He and Myka got out and crept cautiously towards where Fuller was positioned. Myka held the Tesla ready. Pete drew his regular standard-issue handgun. The police captain saw the two Agents coming, narrowed his eyes, and then motioned them to stand nearby out of the way.

"Forty-five seconds," called Fuller. "We got this guy."

"Forty-five seconds until what?" Pete whispered to Myka.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

A short squeal of tires and the sound of an impact in the parking lot nearby caused Pete and Myka to twist their heads around. A blue sedan, pulling into a parking space, was sitting at an awkward angle half within an empty intended spot. The front end of the sedan had impacted a parked SUV in the next spot over. The SUV's alarm began honking and wailing.

"Hold your positions!" Fuller called.

Pete and Myka exchanged looks. Concerned for the occupants' well-being, Pete moved to go out and check on the driver and passenger visible inside the sedan.

"I said hold your positions," Fuller snapped.

Pete glanced over, hesitated. When he looked back out to the crashed sedan, the driver and passenger were exiting the vehicle. The driver was a young man, probably just a few years out of his teens, and the passenger was a similarly aged woman. Relieved to see that they appeared okay, Pete relaxed.

"Here we go!" said Fuller. "Be ready."

A middle-aged man dressed in a grey suit was just exiting through the shopping center's wide double doors. He glanced up, not immediately noticing the police presence stationed out of sight to either side of the doors. His eyes were drawn to the sound of the honking car alarm, the sedan pressed up against the SUV only a few spots deep in the parking lot, and the man and woman standing around peering at the damage.

"That's my vehicle!" he shouted, face contorting in rage. "What the hell did you do?!"

The man and woman looked over, eyes growing wide. The angry man in the suit advanced a couple of steps, reaching for something inside his suit jacket.

"Now!" cried Fuller. "Bring him down!"

The man's head jerked around in surprise.

Two officers raced towards him. Fuller and another officer pointed their weapons at the man. "Don't move an inch!" the captain yelled, "or we will shoot you."

The man forgot about whatever he'd been reaching for and threw his arms in the air.

An instant later, the two cops arrived and tackled him to the ground. Holding him prone, they placed handcuffs on the man. One of them reached down, dug into the guy's suit jacket, and then raised his hand, holding aloft a pistol. "Got his weapon," announced the officer.

Fuller and the third officer now approached, guns still drawn and pointed at the pinned man. "David Winston Abelson, you are under arrest for the future murders of Thomas Stratton and Angel Ramirez."

Pete and Myka shared a shocked look.

"Oh my God. He was going to shoot them, Pete. For a minor fender bender in the parking lot."

"Lucky thing Fuller and his boys were here," Pete said, then paused. "How the heck did they know that was gonna happen, Mykes?"

"Fuller said, the 'future murders'. Almost like—"

"Minority Report, Mykes." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, man! They knew it was going to happen before it happened."

"My God, Pete," said Myka, grabbing his arm, "I think I know what's going on."

"Great! What in the heck is going on?"

"Minority Report!"

"Exactly! Wait. Huh?"

"You said it yourself, this is just like Minority Report. And Steven Pouty, Pete. He was hunting life-like androids. Hunting them. As in bounty hunter. That's just like—"

"Bladerunner with Harrison Ford. Holy cow, so we're dealing with some sort of artifact that brings awesome science fiction movies to life!"

"Not just movies, Pete. They have something else in common besides that. Both were based on source material written by the same person. Philip K. Dick. Bladerunner was originally a novel called, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?"

While they huddled, two of the police officers were loading the man they'd just arrested, David Abelson, into the back of one of the police cruisers.

"Alright, Mykes, what about the first guy? Martin Chambers. The guy who exploded. Did this guy Philip Dick write a story like that?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "I really haven't read that much of his work."

"What? Books that Myka Bering hasn't read?"

She shrugged. "He was a bit too pulpy for my taste."

"Not enough sweet, sweet love-making?"

"Pete! Don't be gross."

"Don't think I didn't see that copy of Fifty Shades of Grey you were trying to keep hidden at the B&B."

"My mom recommended that book to me, Pete," she said defensively. "Anyways, I didn't even finish it."

The police cruiser with David Abelson in the back began driving away. The siren sounded once, and then the car sped off, lights flashing. Captain Fuller was standing nearby, talking into his radio. One other officer remained on the scene, presently interviewing the two people from the blue sedan who had bumped into Abelson's car. The two would-have-been victims had the police not arrived in time to stop the shooting from happening.

"Mykes!" said Pete, snapping his fingers. "It is movies. I remember now. Chambers getting accused of being a robot bomb in disguise, exploding. I remember! It's a movie called Impostor. Not the greatest piece of cinema ever, by the way. It's got that one guy. You know. He was Lieutenant Dan. So we're dealing with an artifact that brings movies to life."

"Maybe," said Myka, "but I'll bet you that movie was also based on a Philip Dick story."

"Well, we have the Farnsworth. Let's ask Artie."

"Do it," she said, nodding.

"You have the Farnsworth, Myka."

"Right," she said, flashing an embarrassed smile. "Right." She shook her head as though to clear it.

Before she could dig into her pocket, Pete reached out and touched her arm. He nodded his head in the direction of Fuller. The police captain was watching the pair of them warily, still speaking into his radio. "Captain Protect and Serve over there is giving us the evil eye, Mykes."

"Do you think he could have the artifact?" she asked. "We still don't know what it is."

"Well, we know that he's here now. And we know that he was at the apartment building where Pouty shot those people. It's not so hard to imagine that he was also at the scene where Chambers exploded."

"We have to figure out what the artifact is, Pete."

"Yeah we do. Before Darth Vader or the Terminator shows up next." In an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice, he said, "I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle."

Myka scrunched up her forehead.

"I'm looking for Sarah Connor."

Myka shook her head.

"No?" asked Pete in his normal voice. "Nothing? Really?" He tried again. "I'll be back."

Myka opened her mouth to respond, but suddenly Fuller was there.

"Pete Lattimer and Myka Bering," said the police captain, eyeing them both. "United States Secret Service."

"That's us," said Pete with a forced laugh. He glanced sideways at Myka. "And you're Captain Fuller, Berkeley PD. So we still all know each other's names."

"I've checked and re-checked," said Fuller, "just to be certain, and it seems there's no record of any Secret Service Agents with those names."

Myka waved off his concern. "Well, we work for a super secret branch of the agency."

"Very hush hush," Pete agreed

"Super secret Secret Service, huh? I went ahead and dug a little deeper, and no one by your two names has ever worked for the Secret Service, or any government or law enforcement agency for that matter. In fact, I haven't found any record of either of you existing at all."

"That's ridiculous," said Myka.

"You obviously didn't search hard enough," added Pete. "I mean, here we are." He waved his arms. "We're standing right here. Obviously, we exist."

Fuller made a small motion with his head, a signal towards the other remaining officer. That officer was no longer interviewing the almost-victims; instead, he was cautiously approaching Pete, Myka, and Fuller.

"You are standing right here," Fuller agreed, "so why don't you tell me who you really are."

"Secret Service," said Pete, pulling out his badge again, frustrated. "Pete Lattimer. And she's Myka Bering. Also Secret Service. Look, pal, I don't know what you're using exactly, but we're on to you."

"On to me?"

"Yeah, we know you're using something. To catch bad guys before they kill someone. To make Steven Pouty think he's shooting androids instead of people. To make Martin Chambers explode. So tell us how you're doing it."

"Pete," said Myka.

Captain Fuller's face was growing darker by the word.

"And tell us why you're doing it. What do you gain from all this?"

"Pete."

"What artifact have you got, huh? Possessed movie scripts? A rare collection of Betamax tapes?"

"Pete!"

"What?" He turned his head. Myka was shaking hers urgently, making be quiet pleas with her eyes.

"I've heard about enough," Fuller growled, motioning to the second officer. "You're out of your mind. And if you won't tell us who you really are—"

"Wait, what?" Pete scoffed. "You think we have something to do with this?"

"Pete, look out."

In a fluid motion, Myka drew and fired the Tesla, zapping the officer coming up beside Pete. He fell to the ground crackling with electricity. The taser in his hand fell from his limp fingers to the ground.

Fuller's eyes grew wide, but he hesitated only a second. He pulled out his weapon, but Pete was moving now. They struggled for a moment, fighting for control. The gun clattered to the sidewalk. A moment later, Pete wrestled around behind the police captain and held his arms pinned. "Mykes," he said, breathing hard.

"I Tesla-ed a police officer, Pete."

"You can apologize later," he grunted, struggling with Fuller. "A little help."

Myka shook her head to clear it, and turned towards Pete and Fuller. She wound up and delivered a cracking fist to the police captain's chin. He sagged limp in Pete's arms. Gingerly, Pete set the groaning man onto the sidewalk.

"Pete," said Myka, shocked, "I just punched a police officer."

"Yeah, you did," said Pete, impressed. "Remind me never to make you angry, Myka Ali." He began shadowboxing, bouncing and throwing punches.

Myka looked around, surveying the two downed cops. A small group of onlookers was gathering. "What are we going to do?"

Pete surveyed the growing crowd. "Now," he said, gathering up Fuller's dropped weapon, "we run."

"Run?"

He hurried to the rental SUV parked by the curb. To Myka, he said, "Yeah, we run. If it's good enough for Tom Cruise, it's good enough for me."

"Pete, you know this isn't actually Minority Report, right? This is real."

They climbed into the vehicle.

"Tell that to David what's-his-name that those cops just arrested for a crime he hadn't committed yet."

He put the SUV in gear and sped away.

After a minute, Myka said, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm just surprised you saw a movie that's all."

"I watch movies."

"Sci-fi movies?"

"Sometimes," she answered guardedly.

"You have a thing for Tom Cruise, don't you?"

"What? No!"

"Ah!" Pete raised a finger, grinning wide. "Colin Farrell."

Myka tightened her lips, but said nothing.

"You do!" Pete laughed, triumphant. "You have a thing for Colin Farrell."

"I do not," Myka muttered, looking away out the passenger window.

"Colin and Myka sitting in a tree."

"I will punch you." She showed Pete her fist. "Remember? Myka Ali?"

Pete snapped his mouth shut and made a zipping motion across his lips. After a minute, he turned to Myka. "So what do we do now?"

They stared at one another, before realization dawned on them together.

In unison they said, "Call Artie!"