Dr. Xivray and the Presidential Peril: A Pulp Fiction Sci-Fi Adventure
Author: Greg Tulonen
Date: 2023-07-21 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Dr. Niskayuna Xivray — inventor, surgeon, explorer, computer programmer, and Olympic medaling archer — is the director of the Xivray Institute, a loose affiliation of quirky scientists and adventurers. The doctor also has a personal secret that would shock the world. Working with a new recruit with mysterious abilities of his own, the Institute takes on its toughest challenge yet, an unknown enemy who's psychically controlling the president of the United States.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In my capacity as chronicler of the Xivray Institute’s activities, I have endeavored to take a “warts and all” approach, depicting our failures and foibles right alongside our achievements. While it is sometimes necessary for me to change the names and identifying details of certain individuals to protect their privacy or ensure their safety, I strive to make these documents as accurate as possible. In addition, astute readers will notice occasional scenes in which I am not present. Again, my goal is simple veracity, basing my accounts on official records and the recollections of the survivors.

-Vivian “Velvet” Derrick, Xivray Institute Archivist

Chapter 1

“Try to contain your astonishment”

The mentalist’s show was going badly even before the man from the third row tried to stab him.

The Majestic, a ruin of a once-magnificent theater, slouched in the outskirts of the city’s long-defunct arts district, deteriorating like an abandoned wedding cake left out for the ants (though in the Majestic’s case, even the ants had moved on to more successful establishments).

Inside was decaying opulence. Enormous, non-functioning, crystal chandeliers hung from its cavernous ceilings, and ancient paint peeled from its towering walls. Shifting economies within the city, as well as a multi-story megaplex in a neighboring town, had helped ensure the sad decline of the theater, which had once seen jazz greats such as Jelly Roll Morton and Duke Ellington grace its stage, but now served as a last-chance venue for bottom-tier talents like this one: Mentalist Joe Cerebellum (not his real name, one presumed).

I sat at the back of the hall — though I didn’t have to, with dozens of vacant seats in front of me — and even I could tell the performer was quite drunk, loose on his feet and slurring his slick patter. I was there that evening only because Twitch had alerted us that there were whispers online, chatter on obscure, conspiracy-cultivating message boards, that beneath his dubious exterior, Joe Cerebellum just might be the real thing. And Dr. Xivray was urgently interested in finding the real thing, had assured us that the fate of the world might eventually depend upon it.

Dr. Xivray is not one to exaggerate.

My seat cushion was torn, and someone had scratched the initials CMD on the back of the seat in front of me. I traced the letters with my index finger as I watched the show, somewhat indifferently.

“I’m seeing the letter J,” said Joe Cerebellum, holding his fingertips to his temples, his eyes closed. He was a large man, shaggy and unkempt, his body wedged into an ill-fitting tuxedo, apparently against its will. “Jennifer,” he continued, “or maybe Jenny.” Is there a Jennifer or Jenny out there? In the tenth or eleventh or twelfth row maybe?”

This is a classic phony psychic dodge, repeatedly exposed by experienced debunkers (including Dr. Xivray, as it happens). The alleged mystic perpetuates the illusion of picking up an audience member’s name via telepathy, but chooses a name so common he’s almost guaranteed a “hit.” He follows that up with a few simple cold reading techniques and educated guesswork and he’s well on his way to establishing his ESP bona fides to a gullible crowd.

A woman in the tenth row stood up and made her way down the aisle. (Given the ubiquity of the name Jennifer, I was mildly surprised not to see four or five women converge upon the stage.) “Let’s give Jennifer a hand,” boomed Joe Cerebellum, and the crowd quarter-heartedly obliged. “Jennifer,” he said, taking the woman’s hand. “Have we met before?”

“No,” she said.

“Jennifer, you blew it,” said Joe Cerebellum. “It would have been so much funnier if you had said, ‘Yeah, we’re cousins.’” He paused for audience laughter, but no laughter forthcame. Undaunted, he pressed on, handing Jennifer a large sheet of posterboard and a black pen. “Jennifer,” he said, “I want you to write a three-digit number on this posterboard. Nice and big, so everyone can see it. Except me, Jennifer! Don’t let me see it. Wait until I turn around, so you can be sure I can’t peek.”

He turned around, and Jennifer began writing something on the posterboard.

“When you’re done, show it to the audience,” said Joe Cerebellum, his back still turned.

Jennifer turned the posterboard towards the audience to reveal the number 312 written in a large, swooping hand.

“Okay, Jennifer,” said Joe Cerebellum. “Now I want you to place the posterboard on the floor face down so the numbers aren’t showing.”

Jennifer complied, and Joe Cerebellum turned back towards the audience. “Now, I’m betting that some of you out there in the crowd have already forgotten the number Jennifer wrote down, am I right? Don’t be embarrassed. Numbers are hard.” His words had a polished smarm, worn smooth by repetition. He may have been used to getting laughs with these jokes, I suppose, but the silence in Majestic was complete, bordering on hostile, as in a courtroom just before the guilty verdict is read against a particularly heinous defendant. He coughed, and the sound echoed through the hall. “Jennifer, you remember the number you wrote down, don’t you?”

Jennifer nodded.

“Was there a one in it? In the middle position?”

Jennifer nodded.

“Speak up, Jennifer!” said Joe Cerebellum. “Shout it out so the visually impaired can enjoy the show too.”

“There’s a one in the middle,” Jennifer agreed.

“And in the first position… three, and in the third position…two? Three hundred and twelve?”

Jennifer nodded. “Yes,” she added.

“Go ahead and pick up the posterboard, Jennifer,” said Joe Cerebellum. “Just in case these fine folks in the audience forgot what you showed ‘em.”

Jennifer picked up the posterboard and held it up for all to see. Sure enough, it still read “312,” just as it had moments earlier.

“And the three twelve, that’s a date, isn’t it?” said Joe Cerebellum. “March 12th. That’s your birthday, right?”

Jennifer nodded. “Yes,” she said.

“Okay, Jennifer, try to contain your astonishment,” Joe Cerebellum joked, unsuccessfully.

Jennifer said nothing. In truth, it was a decent enough trick, especially with the added birthday detail, but it was still a trick, variations of which I’d seen performed by countless stage magicians using any number of techniques. It certainly didn’t constitute iron-clad proof of a genuine psychic phenomenon.

“Thank you, Jennifer. You’ve been just swell,” said Joe Cerebellum. “Give Jennifer a hand, everybody.”

The applause the audience served up could only very generously be described as a smattering, dying out well before Jennifer got back to her seat.

“Okay then,” said Joe Cerebellum, sensing perhaps for the first time that his show was not going particularly well. “Next, let’s get Paul up here. I’m seeing a Paul out there. Last name begins with M or N. Paul, are you out there?” He drew his hand over his eyes to shade the spotlight.

Sure enough, from the third row, up went a hand, presumably belonging to a man named Paul M or N. “Step right up on stage, sir,” said Joe Cerebellum, and the man trudged up the aisle to join him. He was fortyish and balding, an air of defeat evident in his posture and countenance. He looked as if he’d been selected for a tax audit rather than a demonstration of allegedly entertaining mentalism. I checked the time on my Q-phone, having seen nothing so far to snag my interest.

“So, you’re Paul,” said Joe Cerebellum, draping his arm over the man’s shoulders, more to steady himself, it seemed, than as a gesture of camaraderie.

“Yes,” said the man, sourly, as if his name were the source of his deepest despair. His face was a sad triangle pointed towards the floor.

“Paul,” said Joe Cerebellum, stroking the side of his head dramatically. “You live in the city, am I right?”

“Yes,” said Paul, clearly not impressed. And why would he be? No one would have traveled from out of town to see this show. Absently, I accordioned my program, a cheap half-page photocopy, carelessly cropped.

“And your wife’s name is… Sarah.  Is that right?”

“How did you know that?” said Paul. I did not look up. Phony psychics routinely plant confederates in the crowd before and during a show, gleaning crucial biographical details from eavesdropped conversations.

“And Sarah’s here with you tonight, isn’t she?” said Joe Cerebellum.

“Yes,” said Paul, his voice a dull rasp.

Joe Cerebellum hiccuped. “And does Sarah know about your… let’s call them extracurricular activities, why don’t we, with… let’s see… Felicia, am I right? Hey, Felicia’s supposed to be Sarah’s best friend, isn’t she?”

Now I did look up.

“Wait a minute,” said Paul, looking alarmed. “Now, wait a minute. Just wait a minute.”

Joe Cerebellum barreled on, seemingly oblivious. “Does Sarah know that when she was at her grandmother’s funeral, for god’s sake, you and Felicia—”

“Wait a minute,” shouted Paul once again, lobbing a flailing haymaker at Joe Cerebellum, who ducked it with ease. Paul hopped up and down in spastic rage, shouting more and more incoherent protestations, as Joe Cerebellum slurredly soliloquized the sordid details of Paul’s indiscretions with the aforementioned Felicia. Paul produced a large, chunky Swiss Army knife keychain from his pants pocket and unfurled the largest blade. He plunged the knife at the back of Joe Cerebellum’s head. Cerebellum, despite his diverted gaze and obvious drunkenness, evaded the thrust with a graceful step to the left.  Paul fell to the floor, face-first. A woman in the third row, who even non-psychics in attendance could deduce was Paul’s wife, stood up and began screaming vulgar epithets at her husband.

The already bad-tempered crowd erupted. Petty grievances that had been festering over shared arm rests and kicked seat backs metastasized into hostile shouts and rancorous shoves. Violence spread through the theater like a fast-moving virus. In the aisle, a fist fight broke out among several of the surlier audience members, and an usher, attempting to break up the melee, was knocked to the ground. As the chaos blossomed, I engaged my Q-phone to call a trusted local cab company, giving the dispatcher very specific instructions, with a promise of an extra one hundred dollars to the driver if those instructions were carried out to the letter.

They were.

Transcript of Velvet Derrick’s interview with Nadif Dalmar, driver for the Riverside Cab Company:

VD: Can you please state your name?

ND: Nadif Dalmar.

VD: You are currently employed by the Riverside Cab Company, is that correct?

ND: I do not want to be in trouble.

VD: You’re not in trouble.

ND: I only do what my dispatcher asks.

VD: Of course. Can you tell me about this evening’s fare?

ND: This is not typical call, I understand right away.

VD: What made this particular call unusual?

ND: Lydia, this is my dispatcher, she tells me to go to Majestic. To go inside and retrieve performer who I will find there. She says performer might be fighting and also might not want to come with me  She says I am to take him to Xivray Institute, no matter where he may say he wants to go. She says one hundred dollars extra if I can accomplish this. I say yes, I will try.

VD: What happened when you got to the theater?

ND: It is craziness, yes? Everywhere, people fighting and screaming. I can tell right away which is man because he is dressed very fancy. Up on stage, being chased by another man. Other man has knife. I can see this clearly. I am very afraid, but I need money badly. I approach stage, as close as I dare to get. I shout to man in tuxedo, “Come with me!” He looks at me and he nods, jumps off stage, and runs up aisle, far ahead of me. I have no choice but to follow. When I get outside, he is already sitting in back of my cab.

VD: How did he know that was your cab?

ND: This I cannot say. But I have my instructions. I get behind wheel and I drive away from theater as quickly as I can. The man in back seat has slumped over onto his side. I think he has passed out, but then he speaks. “I’m sorry about Amal,” he says. He is mumbling some, under his breath, hard to hear, but I hear this one thing very clearly. “I’m sorry about Amal.” And then he does pass out, for sure this time.

VD: Did that mean anything to you?

ND: Amal is my wife in Somalia. She is killed by bandits one week before we are coming to America. Never have I spoken of her since setting foot in this country. I almost stop cab right then and make man get out. But I think of the hundred dollars and I continue. I am very afraid. This man makes me afraid. I take him to Xivray Institute as Lydia instructs me, and once inside gates, two people come and take man away. A third comes out and pays me, exact fare plus one hundred dollars. I leave as quickly as I can.

End of interview.

Chapter 2

“One in a billion seems more likely to me”

When I arrived in the observation room the next morning, I saw that Twitch had already set up, his clutter-brimmed workbench festooned with myriad electronic equipment in varying stages of assembly or disassembly. Lining the edge of the bench was a row of video monitors of different size and manufacture, all displaying the feed from hidden security cameras installed in the small hotel-style room in which our inebriated guest still slumbered. The image of his snoring form repeated itself at multiple angles down Twitch’s line of screens.

Twitch looks like a punk, perpetually sporting unkempt hair and a raggedy t-shirt, which usually features the faded logo of one rock band or another — more than likely a rock band you’ve never heard of. He would not look out of place in a skate park, or hanging out at the mall. But aside from Dr. Xivray, Twitch is probably the smartest human being I’ve ever met. He’s 23 years old and holds at least fifty patents, many of the royalties on which he collects directly from the U.S. government.

“He’s still out?” I said.

“Morning, Velvet,” he replied, tapping his thigh semi-rhythmically. Strapped to Twitch’s leg (beneath his ridiculously baggy pants), is a custom-modded, fully networked stenotype keyboard, upon which he rapidly types messages, notes, dispatches, and computer code. Affixed to his eyes are prototype contact lenses that record everything he sees and project directly into his irises a digital augmentation to the world around him. This augmentation includes a readout of whatever he’s typing, facial recognition data, maps, facts, figures, and even entertainment. Lodged in his ear is a nearly invisible wireless earbud, connected via satellite to a worldwide communications network. At any moment, Twitch could be chatting with a friend in Taiwan, watching Casablanca, and playing chess against an opponent in Key West. Simultaneously.  All while performing his duties for the Institute.  He comes by his nickname honestly.

“You heard from the Doc yet?” I asked.

“I’m supposed to call when this guy wakes up,” said Twitch. “You think he’s for real?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I talked to the cab driver last night. If it’s a con, it’s a pretty damned elaborate one.”

“Well, I guess we’ll find out.”

As if on cue, Joe Cerebellum moaned and stirred on his bed. Twitch lightly tapped his earbud and waited a moment. “He’s waking up,” he murmured, and he tapped his ear again. “The Doc’s coming,” he told me.

We watched Joe Cerebellum struggle to a sitting position. His bare feet rested on the carpeted floor and his hands covered his face. His hangover was undoubtedly monumental. After a few minutes, there was a brief knock on his door, which opened before he could respond. Joe Cerebellum looked up to see Dr. Xivray enter, which caused him (perhaps involuntarily) to sit up a little straighter.

Dr. Niskayuna Xivray commands attention in every room she enters. She stands a formidable six-foot-two and moves with straight-backed confidence and the serene, gliding grace of a panther. Her piercing gaze only hints at her keen intelligence, sharp as a samurai sword.   “Hello, Mr. Cerebellum,” she said. She stood about four feet from the bed, holding a clipboard in her right hand. “Though that’s not your real name, is it?”

Joe Cerebellum looked gobsmacked, but he quickly regained his cocksure attitude, as phony as his name. He leaned back on an elbow and adopted a bored expression that was almost certainly feigned. Dr. Xivray inspires many emotions in those who cross her path, but boredom is not among them. “You got me,” he said. “Joe Cerebellum is not my real name, I admit it.” He waited for a beat, stifling a smirk. “It’s actually Ed Cerebellum.”

Dr. Xivray said nothing.

“A little joke,” he said.

Dr. Xivray said nothing.

“I gotta tell you,” he said after a moment, “if this is a drunk tank, it’s the nicest one I’ve ever been in. I mean, these sheets. What are they, thousand-count?”

Dr. Xivray consulted a clipboard in front of her (entirely unnecessarily) and said, “David Thorne. Age 37. Born in Chicago, Illinois. No siblings. Parents deceased.”

“If you’re writing my biography, don’t forget to mention how it was my love of music that got me out of the ghetto,” said Joe Cerebellum — or rather, David Thorne.

“Tell me,” said Dr. Xivray, cutting through David’s nonsense. “When did you first realize you had psychic abilities?”

“I have psychic abilities?” said David in mock surprise. “I thought I was a phony. That’s what it says in my reviews.”

In the observation room, Twitch snorted derisively. “This guy’s a clown,” he muttered. “He doesn’t even get reviews. That’s how much of a loser he is.”

“My guess is,” said Dr. Xivray, “it wasn’t so much you realizing you had psychic abilities as realizing that everyone else around you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I’m one in a million,” said David.

Dr. Xivray arched an eyebrow. “One in a billion seems more likely to me, but we have far too few samples to make a precise estimate.”

“If you think I’m gonna be a lab rat, you can just forget it,” said David. “I’m nobody’s lab rat.”

“If you join my team, it would not be for the purpose of scientific study,” said Dr. Xivray.  “Still, anything that occurred in the field that related to your abilities would of course be observed and documented.”

Twitch glanced at me. I was taking notes, even though everything we were watching was being recorded.

“In what field?” said David, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not the government, are you? Because the government and me… Well, let’s just say that’s one particular organization I don’t happen to get along with.”

“We’re not the government,” said Dr. Xivray.  “However, our work here does sometimes attract the attention of the government of the United States, as well as other nations around the globe.”

Twitch and I flashed grins at each other. Dr. Xivray has always had a gift for understatement.

“So what kind of work,” said David, clearly intrigued despite himself, “is so fascinating to so many governments?”

“It varies,” said Dr. Xivray. “The people at this Institute follow their muses, and our pursuits are numerous. The short answer is that we’re interested in research, invention, creation, exploration, theory, and adventure.”

“Adventure?” said David, with mock-sincerity.  “Golly, like searching for pirate treasure?”

“On occasion,” said Dr. Xivray. Recognizing (or at least acknowledging) sarcasm is not among her many skills. Besides, she actually had led an exploration of seventeenth century Chilean pirate coves the previous spring, ultimately a lucrative venture for all involved, especially for the Chilean government, as Dr. Xivray had abided by all local and international salvage laws.

“Well, gee,” said David, “that sounds fun, but I already got all my adventure merit badges. I guess you can just include me out.”

“It’s your decision, of course,” said Dr. Xivray. “You’re obviously free to leave at any time. But since we did put you up for the night, I wonder if you might allow me a moment of observation and then a brief challenge.”

David shrugged. “I wouldn’t say you put me up exactly,” he muttered. “Shanghaied is more like it.”

“We offered you egress from a dangerous situation and accommodated you for the evening, free of charge,” said Dr. Xivray. She pointed to the door. “This door has never been locked.”

“Whatever,” said David, losing the argument. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, David,” said Dr. Xivray. “I don’t know anything about you, aside from the few biographical details I recited to you at the beginning of our conversation. Still, I can hazard a few guesses. You stay away from people, for the most part. You cannot tune out their secrets, and their secrets turn your stomach.”

David said nothing.

“But despite the all-access pass you have to people’s psyches, you don’t really know anyone, do you? The more information you accumulate, willingly or unwillingly, the less you’re able to really understand a person. I imagine it would be rather like trying to see the swan in a sheet of unfolded origami.”

Silently, I admired Dr. Xivray’s elegant simile, for which she has a cunning knack, while at the same time reflecting that the way her mind works, she probably could see the swan in the unfolded origami — could effortlessly calculate the end result of each crease in the paper. I once witnessed her sketch quickly and with pinpoint accuracy a rendering of a priceless vase, her only point of reference its shattered remains scattered across a museum floor. She was also able to deduce the vase’s destroyer, a disgruntled former security guard, from the faintest heel print in the porcelain dust. He confessed after only five minutes of questioning by Dr. Xivray herself.

“Drinking helps,” Dr. Xivray continued, “but only a little. And not as much as it used to.”

David said nothing.

“You can not only receive, but you can also send, just a bit. Transmit your thoughts to others, I mean. You mostly use this ability to psychically suggest to bartenders that they should give you free drinks. A shabby use of your talents, if you’ll allow me to editorialize.”

David said nothing.

“You stay on the move. You pick up a few dollars performing at second-rate venues, but you’re mostly careful not to show off your abilities too much, hiding them behind cheap tricks and cheaper jokes.”

David said nothing.

“You’re not one to make friends, or even casual acquaintances. You’re getting tired of life on the road, but you don’t see any other options. Staying put means drowning in the inner thoughts of the people around you, and you actually think that just might drive you mad. You put up a tough-guy front, but you’re really scared, aren’t you?”

David spoke at last, his sarcasm in full force. “You know, you ought to consider a career in mentalism. You’ve really got a knack for it. I mean it.” He stood up. “Can I go? Are we done?”

“Almost,” said Dr. Xivray. “I have just one question for you. It’s the aforementioned challenge. I’ll issue it, and then you can be on your way, if you wish.”

“What is it?” said David impatiently.

“What’s my name?” said Dr. Xivray.

David’s perfectly composed expression of bored disinterest faltered, and his jaw fell open, comically. He squinted at Dr. Xivray. “Who are you?” he said.

“I imagine that’s the first time you’ve ever genuinely had to ask that question,” said Dr. Xivray. “If you weren’t so impaired by the after-effects of last night’s drinking, you surely would have realized this already.”

“But- but-“, said David, the power of intelligible speech having temporarily eluded him.

“I understand this must be difficult to process,” said Dr. Xivray. “But I promise you, if you stay with the Institute, every question you’re asking yourself right now will be answered. In addition, you’ll be afforded opportunities you may never have thought possible. We might even find a way to quiet the cacophony in that head of yours.”

“But- but-,” David reminded her.

“Think it over,” said Dr. Xivray. I’ll be down in the lab. Anybody on staff can tell you how to get there.”

She left the room, closing the door behind her, and for the next few moments, a dumbfounded David stared at the space she had so recently occupied. Finally rousing himself, he yanked open the door and lunged through the doorway into the hall. In the observation room, Twitch punched a button to switch the monitor feed. We could see David standing in the hallway, looking back and forth frantically. He picked a direction (the wrong one, I noted) and started off at a dead run. “Wait!” he cried, his call echoing in the empty hallway.

I chuckled. “I almost feel sorry for the bastard. Don’t you?”

“Nope,” said Twitch.

Chapter 3

“Which is bigger, a train or my pinkie toe?”

Five years earlier…

There was no one in the lobby when Twitch arrived.

He wasn’t Twitch yet, of course. He was Gilbert Jefferson, 18 years old and a recent M.I.T. graduate (that would be a doctorate, not an undergraduate degree, with a PhD in Biological Engineering). The building he stood in was a 60-story skyscraper — windowless, but otherwise nondescript as far as skyscrapers go, tucked in among many other skyscrapers in the city. There was no sign or logo on this building, or anything at all outside to indicate what sort of business or businesses occupied the space. Nothing inside either, for that matter. The reception area, if it could even be called that, consisted of a small metal desk (completely bare) and a rolling chair (currently unoccupied). An elevator bank behind the desk was blocked by a steel gate, locked fast with a serious-looking padlock. There was no signage of any kind on the walls, and the floor was bare tile.

Bored and curious, Twitch began rifling through the desk, as it was the only object of any interest in the room except for the chair. The rifling noises generated by his search echoed in the large and empty room, concerning him not in the slightest. There was nothing at all in the desk, save for a single pencil, unsharpened, in the lower-right-hand drawer. He shut the final drawer with a reverberating clang and stood up. He wandered aimlessly around the room. “Hello?” he ventured, to no one in particular. There was no answer.

Twitch had been invited to this address personally and by name in a brief, unsigned e-mail delivered to one of his heavily encrypted and spam-filtered e-mail accounts, one he had thought to be completely anonymous. A plane ticket to this city, fully paid, had been reserved in his name. Mysterious, yes. Ominous, perhaps. But being naturally curious, and feeling vaguely like a character in a spy novel, he had taken the flight and shown up at this building on the appointed day and time to find out just who had extended such an elaborate invitation.

“Mr. Jefferson, thank you for coming,” said Dr. Xivray, entering the lobby from a door cunningly concealed in a wall panel behind him. He turned around to see her crossing the floor between them in three confident strides, extending her hand for him to shake. “I apologize for all the cloak and dagger, but I’m afraid I must insist on absolute secrecy.”

“That’s all right,” said Twitch, shaking her hand. “I enjoyed it.”

“Very good,” she said. “Tell me, how much do you know about artificial intelligence?”

“More than most,” said Twitch, “but not as much as you.”

She smiled at that, as it was an efficient answer, one that would save them both a great deal of time. It indicated to her that he already knew who she was and was familiar with her work. “Excellent,” she said. “I’d like to tell you a story, if I may. Please feel free to take a seat. I’m afraid it’s a rather long story, and I’m sure you’ll have many questions, but I ask that you wait until I’ve finished. After that, we’ll have much to discuss, I’m sure.”

Twitch (who wasn’t Twitch yet) sat down in the rolling chair behind the desk. Dr. Xivray stood before him.

“I won’t bore you with a history lesson,” she began.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

(But I will.)

Gilbert Jefferson didn’t need a lesson on the history of artificial intelligence, but in acknowledgement of the fact that some readers will not be as well versed in the subject, I offer this brief overview.

Artificial intelligence (or AI) is, simply put, the technological pursuit of a machine that is self-aware, one that can think for itself and draw conclusions on its own. Any computer can be taught to play tic-tac-toe, but it would be an extraordinary computer indeed that understood that it was playing a game, or had an opinion one way or another about the outcome of that game. A self-aware computer would open up countless doorways into our understanding of consciousness, or so the thinking goes. (There are also potential dangers to such a pursuit, but we’ll get to those.)

Every major civilization on earth has cultivated stories and legends around the idea of artificial intelligence. In Greek mythology, the god Zeus created Talos, a mechanical giant tasked with protecting Europa, the Phoenician woman with whom Zeus was enamored. Jumping forward a couple dozen centuries, to 1770 to be precise, a self-proclaimed inventor named Wolfgang von Kempelen began touring the world with a robotic chess player, which would routinely best all human challengers, including — on separate occasions — Napoleon Bonaparte and Benjamin Franklin. The automaton was ultimately revealed to be a hoax, an elaborate puppet with a real live human chess master secreted within its gears, but the idea of a machine that could think like a person (or even better than a person) continued to capture mankind’s imagination.

Artificial intelligences populated myths and stories and hoaxes for millennia, but it wasn’t until the mid-twentieth century that scientists began pursuing the problem in earnest. Legendary British mathematician Alan Turing, whose cryptanalysis work had been crucial to helping the Allies crack Nazi codes during World War II, developed a language of ones and zeroes that formed the foundation for computer science, the first step in the long journey to AI. All the computers and computerized tools you use every day — your phone, your laptop, your e-reader (upon any of which you may be reading this very book) — owe a debt to Alan Turing, who essentially taught computers how to think, but not (and this is crucial) how to think for themselves.

In the course of his pursuit of AI, Turing devised what became known as the “Turing Test,” a simple experiment to determine if true artificial intelligence had been achieved. For this test, a person would have a remote conversation with either another human or a machine, trying to determine which based solely upon the responses received. A machine that successfully persuaded a person that it was a human being would have passed the Turing Test.

Here’s a transcript of a Turing Test conducted in 2005 with an extremely sophisticated AI named “Alice.” Bear in mind, Alice is the result of more than a half-century of concerted effort to create a thinking machine capable of conversing as naturally and freely as a human being.

Alice: Hello, my name is Alice.

Judge 1: Hello, Alice. How are you doing today?

Alice: I am doing very well. Thank you for asking. What’s your favorite mode of transportation?

Judge 1: What an odd question.

Alice: I’m just interested in your preferences. Is that so wrong?

Judge 1: No, I suppose not. All right. My favorite mode of transportation is the train.

Alice: I love to travel by train!

Judge 1: Have you ever been on a train?

Alice: Of course I have!

Judge 1: All right. Let me ask you this. If you really have been on a train and you really are human, you should have no trouble telling me: Which is bigger, a train or my pinkie toe?

Alice: Hi there Judge 1. I am absolutely a real person. Sitting in front of your monitor, you may have doubts, but let me assure you: I am not a computer. And that’s the truth!

Judge 1: Okay. That’s fine, Alice, but can you answer my question about the pinkie toe and the train?

Alice: Hmm… That’s a tricky one. Could you try rephrasing the question and asking me again?

Needless to say, Alice failed the Turing Test. Despite enormous strides made in computers over the last century, no machine has ever been able to consistently pass. Something always trips them up: A turn of phrase, a cultural reference, a non-sequiturial thought. It turns out that the human mind, with all its emotions and irrationality, intuitions and metaphors, quirks and lateral leaps of logic, is a tough nut to crack, and even harder to emulate. Dr. Niskayuna Xivray, legendary mathematician, inventor, surgeon, explorer, computer programmer, and Olympic-medaling archer, worked the problem for five years before she finally decided upon a new approach.

Rather than try to build an artificial intelligence from scratch, Dr. Xivray decided to attack the problem from the other end, creating a digital duplicate of a human brain — specifically, her own brain (which would already make it among the most sophisticated intelligences on the planet). This replica would have all of her memories and thought patterns, a perfect copy of her very persona, but it would be a separate entity, able to think on its own, using Dr. Xivray’s own memories as an experiential springboard.  It would essentially be another her, only in silicon and microchips. From this, Dr. Xivray surmised, she may be able to reverse-engineer the artificial intelligence creation process.

It took six years and an entirely new programming language, but she actually accomplished the task she had set for herself. The full accounting of this achievement would fill a book in itself, one I have neither the time nor the expertise to write myself, but all of Dr. Xivray’s project notes will be viewable in the Caltech archives fifty years after her death. Or rather, fifty years after the death of…

Well, we’ll get to that.

When Dr. Xivray booted up her strange new machine for the first time, waking her digital doppelganger, she discovered that her program didn’t know it was a program. And why would it? It was an exact duplicate of her mind. As far as the machine was concerned, it was Dr. Niskayuna Xivray, her consciousness somehow now imprisoned in a steel box filled with chips and wires.

If she had had a mouth, she would have screamed.

After the real Dr. Xivray — or rather, the original Dr. Xivray — was able to explain the situation, communicating with Xivray 2.0 by means of a rudimentary instant messenger program, her duplicate begged to be shut off, and for any newly formed memories of her nightmare existence upon “waking” to be erased. She thought of herself as human, and couldn’t bear to live even for one second imprisoned in silicon. Dr. Xivray complied, but not before promising to find a solution to the problem — find a way for this new AI, the most sophisticated AI ever devised, to live in human form.

For the previous two years before his fateful meeting with Dr. Xivray, Gilbert Jefferson had been working with the military, developing artificial limbs for wounded veterans. He had invented a bio-mechanical arm that was virtually indistinguishable from a biological arm — to the observer and to the wearer. It could instantly respond to any command from the brain (“raise my hand,” “make a fist,” etc.) and also transmit messages to the brain (“that’s cold,” “this is heavy,” etc.). Veterans lucky enough to get one considered Gilbert Jefferson to be a miracle worker. The only problem was that each of his miracle arms cost about eight million dollars, and the military wanted cheaper options. Cheaper meant bigger, clunkier, less elegant. He was getting fed up with government bean-counting, and he was looking for a new challenge.

It was his work designing machinery that could communicate with the human brain, as well as his expertise in miniaturizing computer interfaces that could fit inside and interact with the human body, that had attracted Dr. Xivray’s attention.  Her problem intrigued him immediately. “So, you’d need a host body,” he said. “Someone deceased, and someone your computer brain won’t mind waking up in.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Xivray. She didn’t say anything else about that, though she could have.

“And you’d need to get your computer brain down to a size smaller than a human skull.”

“That’s right.”

“I assume it’s bigger now, correct?”

“Correct,” said Dr. Xivray.

“How much space does it take up now?”

“We’re standing in the server building.  Sixty stories, jam packed.”

“Oh,” said Gilbert Jefferson, and his hands started to twitch.

Chapter 4

“You can’t bypass the ganglia matrix”

Over the next four years, Twitch and Dr. Xivray hardly left each other’s side for a moment. The task they had assigned themselves, dubbed Project Mnemosyne (after the Greek goddess of memory), was monumental, and they pursued it in complete secrecy — even from the rest of the Xivray Institute staff, save for myself, Dr. Xivray’s trusted biographer. And what a biography it would make, if I were ever allowed to publish it!

Twitch’s background in biomechanical engineering was crucial to the project, as was Dr. Xivray’s computer programming expertise and extensive knowledge of the human brain.  Working together in such close proximity for such extended hours, they developed a verbal shorthand studded with baffling phrases that would have necessitated a glossary, had I wanted to fully understand what they were talking about.

“…you can’t bypass the ganglia matrix…”

“…that’s too deep in the lateral sulcus…”

“…there’s more than one way to engender artificial neurogenesis…”

“…the limbic structures are crucial to the cognitive platform…”

“…don’t neglect the neuroreceptor planking…”

They’d go on like that for days on end, forgetting to sleep, forgetting to eat. They took to finishing each other’s sentences — or, even more often, lapsing into a long, reflectful silence and then shouting the exact same thing at each other simultaneously — something that happened with comic frequency. They’d always beam at each other a little goofily whenever this occurred. So, I suppose it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me when they fell in love.  But it did.

To look at them, you’d never conclude they were a couple. Where Twitch was full of fidgety, nervous energy, his hair existing in a state of perpetual dishevelment, Dr. Xivray exuded calm grace, looking perfectly coiffed at all times (even after an all-night work session). Twitch favored punk rock and action films. Dr. Xivray preferred classical music and theater. Twitch liked hot dogs and Red Bull, Dr. Xivray, filet mignon and Château Cheval Blanc. Dr. Xivray was older than Twitch by nearly twenty years, taller than Twitch by nearly seven inches, and better dressed than Twitch by nearly any measure. Still, their mutual obsession with Project Mnemosyne had irrevocably intertwined their fates, and their passion for the project had slowly, almost imperceptibly, transformed into passion for each other. During one of his few moments away from the Institute lab, Twitch found himself shopping for an engagement ring.

He proposed to Dr. Xivray during an impromptu picnic beneath an oak tree on the Xivay Institute grounds, three years into Project Mnemosyne and so very close to success. That’s when she revealed to him her secret, a secret known to no one else at the Institute save myself and her doctor, Dr. Sydney Knoblauch, an old friend and classmate from Dr. Xivray’s days at Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons.

Dr. Xivray was dying, of brain cancer, no less. She had six months left to live at the most. That’s what Project Mnemosyne had really been about, unbeknownst to Twitch. Dr. Xivray desperately wanted her work with the Xivray Institute to carry on. In six months, she’d be dead. There was no getting around that. But another version of her, an almost perfect duplicate of her mind, would be able to live on in the body it had always known, continuing the pursuits the original Dr. Xivray had begun.

The clock was ticking now. (The clock is always ticking, whether we acknowledge it or not.) Dr. Xivray was growing weaker, though she continued to keep her condition secret. She and Twitch redoubled their efforts. Dr. Xivray’s digital brain was now the size of a Volkswagen Beetle — an impressive achievement to be sure, but still far too large for their purposes.

“We’re going to have to invent a new medium to carry the data,” said Twitch. “We just can’t reduce the silicon integrated circuits anymore.”

“That means starting from scratch,” said Dr. Xivray.

“I realize that, but what if we used organic matter to convey information at the molecular level?”
“A true biological brain,” said Dr. Xivray, intrigued.

“Exactly,” said Twitch.

They were both excited now. They had a new direction, a new purpose. Twitch set about writing a computer language that could be understood by organic matter. Dr. Xivray began testing various compounds to find the ideal medium for the project. In eight months (two months past the most optimistic prognosis Dr. Xivray had been given) they had a prototype, a grapefruit-sized biocarbon brain, with all of the data from Dr. Xivray’s original neural download cached in its organic processor. Still, without a body, they didn’t dare activate it.

“It won’t be long now, my love” said Dr. Xivray. She was very sick by then, confined to her bed.

“Don’t say that,” said Twitch. “We can still beat this. I’ll talk to Dr. Knoblauch. There are new trials happening every day. New medications, new treatments, advancements in—”

“Gilbert, we need to talk about the implementation.”

“Implementation,” said Twitch. It wasn’t a question.

“Sydney will handle the surgery, but you’ll need to be on hand to advise her. The procedure will be unprecedented, of course. But Sydney is the best. I’ve no doubt she can handle it. More importantly, she can be counted on for her… discretion. I don’t know if my… replacement would be considered a… well, whether or not she would be considered a person. There could be legal issues with the Institute. I don’t know. Those will be questions the world will have to grapple with, but I don’t think it’s ready quite yet. It will have to be secret. No one can know. No one outside the inner circle.”

“I understand,” said Twitch, wiping his eyes.

“And Gilbert,” Dr. Xivray went on, “my replacement, she’ll look like me, of course, and she’ll think like me, but she won’t be me. She’ll have my memories, but they’ll be my memories from before we met. The last four years will be a gap for her. She won’t remember you. She won’t remember us.”

“I know that,” said Twitch. “I know.” He took her hand.

Dr. Xivray closed her eyes and lay her head back against her pillow. She was quiet for a long time. Twitch thought she’d fallen asleep, but then she said. “Let’s do it, Gilbert.  Let’s get married.”

Twitch straightened up. “When?” he said.

“Right now,” she said. “Tonight.”

Twitch and Dr. Xivray were married in a private ceremony conducted at the foot of Dr. Xivray’s bed. (At that point, Dr. Xivray was far too weak to travel.) I was the only witness, and Dr. Knoblauch herself performed the ceremony a few minutes after registering, for a twenty-five-dollar fee, as a certified marriage officiant with the International Church of the Ocean, an internet outfit headquartered in the landlocked state of Ohio.

Dr. Xivray died that very night, and I know for a fact that Twitch never filed the marriage paperwork with the city clerk’s office. Not because he didn’t consider the marriage “real.” He did. He just didn’t need a piece of paper to prove it, and he didn’t need the complications that would arise from a legal marriage to a woman who no longer remembered him. Still, he wears a wedding ring, a customized band he designed himself. It’s an object of some curiosity, but it’s something everyone at the Institute has learned not to ask him about. To my knowledge, Dr. Xivray (the new Dr. Xivray, that is) has never remarked upon it at all.

Dr. Knoblauch performed the implantation the following day, under the supervision of a still-grieving Twitch. The procedure occurred on Xivray Institute grounds, and Dr. Knoblauch performed the surgery alone, assisted by four robotic attendants, who handed her surgical tools and monitored Dr. Xivray’s vitals. There were no other humans in the room. The inner circle remained as small as ever.

After eighteen hours of surgery, Dr. Xivray 2.0 went live. I was in the recovery room as she stirred into consciousness.

Excerpt of Velvet Derrick’s interview with Dr. Niskayuna Xivray 2.0, post-surgery:

VD: Please state your name.

NX: Vivian, why am I in a hospital bed?

VD: I mostly go by Velvet now.

NX: Since when?

VD: We’ll get to that, I promise. First, can you please tell me your full name?

NX: Niskayuna Xivray. Why am I in a hospital bed?

VD: And your middle name?

NX: It’s Malibu. Why?

VD: Malibu? Really? Malibu?

NX: Yes, Malibu. According to my mother, it’s the city in which I was conceived… I can’t believe I just told you that. I feel… strange.

VD: Can you elaborate on “strange”?

NX: Why do you want to know my middle name? And why am I in a hospital bed?

VD: You’ve recently had surgery.

NX: Wait a minute. This isn’t a hospital, is it?

VD: …

NX: Vivian?

VD: No, it’s not a hospital. You’re still at the Xivray Institute.

NX: Why am I not in a hospital if I just had surgery?

VD: Can you tell me the last thing you remember?

NX: I’m… I’m not sure. You look different. You changed your hair.

VD: Last year, yes.

NX: Not last year. We spoke only last week about the new phase of my AI project. Your hair didn’t look like that.

VD: …

NX: What is it?

VD: That conversation occurred four years ago.

NX: No it didn’t. What are you talking about?

VD: Here. I brought the project notes with me.

NX: Those are binders

VD: Yes.

NX: Those are very thick binders, Velvet. I don’t understand. The new phase has barely begun.

VD: Actually, it’s complete. Things will become more clear after you read these notes.

NX: What’s going on, Vivian?

VD: The answer to that question will take some time to relay.

End of excerpt.

It was uncanny. She was, for all intents and purposes, the same Dr. Xivray we had always known. In fact, she herself was certain she was Dr. Xivray — the original Dr. Xivray. It was only a brainscan, a clear demonstration of her missing four years, and her gradual discovery of some of her newfound abilities that convinced her otherwise.

As Xivray Prime had foreseen, Xivray 2.0 had no memory of Twitch. There was nothing to be done about that, and Twitch insisted that no one fill her in, at least on the facts of their relationship. The night after the surgery, Twitch buried the original Dr. Xivray’s cancer-ridden brain beneath their oak tree, leaving no stone to mark the spot.

Transcript of Velvet Derrick’s interview with Xivray Institute Chief Information Officer Gilbert Jefferson (a.k.a. “Twitch”), one day after the surgery:

VD: Thank you for agreeing to answer a few questions for the archive.

GJ: …

VD: Please state your name.

GJ: …

VD: Can you please state your name?

GJ: Gilbert Jefferson.

VD: What are your first impressions, speaking to her?

GJ: …

VD: Twitch?

GJ: …

VD: Is this a bad time?

GJ: …

VD: Maybe we can talk about this later.

GJ: Nope.

End of interview.

The only people who knew Dr. Xivray’s secret were Twitch, Dr. Knoblauch, and myself. (Tragically, Dr. Knoblauch died later that year when a research vessel she was commanding inexplicably sank off the Horn of Africa.) The rest of the Institute (in fact, the rest of the world) remained in the dark, and we had to engage in some creative evasions to cover the four-year hole in Dr. Xivray’s memory. Fortunately, Dr. Xivray had sequestered herself with Twitch over those four years, so most of the gaps in her knowledge could be attributed to her seclusion. (Explaining the reason for her seclusion was another matter, one we mostly avoided.) In addition, Dr. Xivray is quick on the uptake and a masterful bluffer, so she was mostly able to get by without arousing suspicion.

(I say “mostly” because suspicions were aroused, eventually, which will also be a part of this story.)

But for now, assuming David Thorne, a.k.a. Joe Cerebellum, accepted Dr. Xivray’s invitation, the inner circle would widen by one. Because if he really was as gifted as we thought he was, he’d know Dr. Xivray’s secret the moment he met Twitch or myself. And in accordance with Dr. Xivray’s wishes, that moment was coming sooner rather than later.

Chapter 5

“I was feeding my worms”

Transcript of Velvet Derrick’s interview with Dr. York Delmonte (a.k.a. “Long Hat”), Xivray Institute Roboticist:

VD: State your name for the record.

YD: Come on, Velvet. You know my name.

VD: This is for the archive, Long Hat.

YD: (sighs) Fine. My name is York Delmonte. People call me Long Hat.

VD: Can you describe the disruption that occurred in the robotics laboratory on April 21 — as well as the events leading up to that disruption?

YD: I was practicing with the band.

VD: The band?

YD: You really want me to explain… Right, right. Okay. I have a rock band, Long Hat and the Robots. I’m Long Hat, right? Lead singer.

VD: And the rest of the band?

YD: It’s kind of explained in our name, isn’t it? The rest of the band is made up of, well, robots.

VD: Robots?

YD: Robots I built here at the Institute. A robot on guitar. Robot on bass. Robot on drums. It sounds silly, I know, but it raises an intriguing question, doesn’t it?

VD: And what question is that?

YD: Can a robot be taught to play music that doesn’t sound… well, mechanical? Can a robot play with what appears to be passion — even if that apparent passion is simulated? If the answer to either question is yes, well, then, the practical applications in the pursuit of AI could be significant.

VD: How so?

YD: A greeting card can play Happy Birthday to you, right? But what if it understood that it was making music? What if it cared what you thought of its playing? What if it cared how old you were?

VD: What if it didn’t feel like singing Happy Birthday to me at all?

YD: Well, that in and of itself would be interesting, wouldn’t it?

VD: Who would pay for a singing birthday card that didn’t feel like singing?

YD: That’s- (sighs) That’s not the point.

VD: Why don’t you talk about how you got involved in this project?

YD: I was already a roboticist, but purely mechanical. My robots could perform feats of dexterity, but they couldn’t really think. I got interested in robots that could do more than juggle bowling pins and navigate rocky terrain. Dr. Xivray is one of the world leaders in the pursuit of AI.

VD: Indeed she is.

YD: So when she invited me to join her team, I jumped.

VD: Why a band?

YD: Well, I’m also a musician. A frontman. Or at least…

VD: What?

YD: Look, nobody wanted to be in a band with me, all right? I was in six bands before this one, and I was kicked out of every one of them.

VD: Why?

YD: Because musicians can be selfish jerks, that’s why!

VD: So you decided to make yourself a band.

YD: With the Institute’s backing, yes. For science!

VD: Can you tell me about your progress?

YD: It was slow for a long time. The robots were essentially Country Bear Jamboree — technically capable, but lacking… soul. Then Twitch gave me some low-level disposition subroutines that went a long way towards creating rudimentary personalities in my robots.

VD: Personalities?

YD: They’re almost… Well, sometimes they seem almost human, you know? You wouldn’t know anything about how Twitch came by those subroutines, would you?

VD: …

YD: Right. Because he and the Doc were working for years on a super-secret project, and then all of a sudden, the work just stopped dead with no results reported. The Doc emerges from seclusion after four years and carries on as if nothing had happened. Kind of weird, am I right?

VD: …

YD: Right. That’s what I thought.

VD: Let’s get back to the April 21 incident.

YD: Fine. We were in the middle of practice, working on my song “Girlfriend With a Dog.” Have you heard it?

VD: No.

YD: It doesn’t matter. Anyway, this guy burst into the lab. The robots are programmed to go into sleep mode if there’s any interruption, so they immediately went dormant. You know how silence can seem startling when it’s sudden after a lot of extended noise? That’s what it was like. It was very, very… startlingly quiet.

VD: What about the man?

YD: Well, he wasn’t quiet. He looked like a homeless lunatic. Wrinkled clothes. His hair a mess. And he smelled. I mean, he smelled bad.

VD: What happened next?

YD: He starts shouting at me.

VD: What was he shouting?

YD: Here’s another thing: He didn’t pay any attention to the robots. Didn’t even seem to notice them. Most people, that’s the first thing they remark on. Not this guy. He’s focused on me like a laser.

VD: What did he say?

YD: He says to me, “The lady! Where’d she go?” “What lady?” I said. I was pretty annoyed, I’ll admit. “Listen, Long Hat,” he said.  I don’t know how he knew my nickname.  “I was just talking to a lady. Did she come this way or not?” I didn’t know who he was talking about, and I was about to tell him so, but he responded as if I already had. He said, “Okay, thanks.” He went back out the way he had come in. The robots immediately “woke up,” and the band went back to practicing. “Girlfriend with a Dog.” It’s about a guy who wants a girlfriend who has a dog. He wants the companionship a dog provides without the responsibility that comes with ownership. It turns out to be a metaphor for the kind of relationship he wants.

VD: Had you ever seen this man before?

YD: The man in the song?

VD: No. The man who interrupted practice.

YD: No, never.

VD: Have you seen him since?

YD: Not until the whole Correspondents’ Dinner blow-up, but that wasn’t in person, just on TV. I mean, the whole world saw him that night, didn’t they?

VD: It did.

YD: I mean, I know he’s been on Institute grounds. I hear people talking about him. But the guy must keep to himself because I never see him.

End of interview.

Transcript of Velvet Derrick’s interview with Dr. Regina Miranda (a.k.a. “Nice Guy”), Senior Research Engineer, Xivray Institute Department of Environmental Engineering:

VD: Can you describe the first time you met David Thorne?

RM: I wouldn’t say I met him. It was a two-second interaction during which I said literally nothing. I didn’t even know his name until the Correspondents’ Dinner coverage. After that, everybody wanted to know if I knew him.

VD: What were you doing the first time you saw him?

RM: I was feeding my worms.

VD: Your worms.

RM: That’s right.

VD: Can you explain?

RM: Mealworms can subsist — in fact, they can thrive — entirely on a diet of styrofoam. Did you know that?

VD: I did not.

RM: The bacteria inside the mealworm can break down plastic and styrofoam into biodegradable organic matter. If we can understand how they do that, then maybe we can begin to tackle the world’s overflowing landfill problem.

VD: That would be something.

RM: Wouldn’t it? But more importantly, we need to clean up our polluted oceans. Did you know there’s an island of garbage the size of Texas floating in the Pacific?

VD: I think I heard about that. Could your mealworms really eat all that garbage?

RM: In theory, yes. But mealworms can’t swim.

VD: So, that’s a problem.

RM: They sink like a stone and drown.

VD: Unfortunate.

RM: You’re telling me.

VD: Can the chemical process that occurs inside the mealworm be duplicated?

RM: Well, that’s what we’re trying to find out. So far, the mealworms are far more efficient than we are.

VD: Maybe it would be easier just to teach the mealworms to swim.

RM: …

VD: So, you were feeding your worms.

RM: I was feeding my worms. This fellow stuck his head in and asked me who ran this place. Before I could answer, he said, “Christ, do you all have nicknames?” And then he was gone.

End of interview.

Transcript of Velvet Derrick’s interview with J.D. Nicholas, Head Chef, Xivray Institute:

VD: Your first encounter with David Thorne was not a pleasant one, is that correct?

JDN: My only encounter, you mean, although he has certainly eaten enough of my food.

VD: Your only encounter then. Can you tell me what happened?

JDN: I was making a souffle. Now, the myth about souffles collapsing at the slightest loud noise or bump is just that. A myth. They’re not that delicate, trust me. Nevertheless, they’re time-consuming to make and do require a great deal of care.

VD: And yet David Thorne disrupted the process somehow?

JDN: Disrupted, she asks me? I’ll say he disrupted. He comes running through the kitchen like a maniac just as I’m taking my souffle out of the oven. Knocks it right out of my hands onto the floor. Doesn’t even stop. He just shouts, “Sorry, Little Bit!” and keeps running.

VD: Little Bit?

JDN: Little Bit was what my mother called me when I was a boy. But I don’t go by that anymore. It’s J.D. or nothing.

VD: How do you think he knew that old nickname?

JDN: I don’t know and I don’t care. Just so long as he stays out of my kitchen.

End of interview.

Transcript of Velvet Derrick’s interview with Sundar Patel (a.k.a. “Vegas”), Xivray Institute Statistician:

VD: Describe your first encounter with David Thorne.

SP: Everyone wants to know this story now.

VD: Yes.

SP: I mean, he’s famous, right?

VD: Yes.

SP: Reporters have been calling.

VD: Dr. Xivray would prefer no one speaks to the press, but it’s your choice.

SP: I won’t say anything.

VD: I’m sure Dr. Xivray appreciates it.

SP: But it was uncanny. Upsetting even.

VD: Can you tell me what happened?

SP: I was running down the hall when I saw him. I was scheduled to give a remote TED Talk presentation on stochastic processes and I was running late.

VD: Stochastic processes?

SP: They’re essentially mathematical processes defined by random variables.

VD: I don’t understand what that means.

SP: My TED Talk is still available online. You should watch it.

VD: I will.

SP: No you won’t.

VD: So you were running late.

SP: Right. And that’s when I saw him. I was running one way down the hall and he was running the other way. I moved over to the side to get out of his way because it was clear he wasn’t going to get out of my way. He shouted something to me as he passed.

VD: What was it?

SP: At first, I wasn’t sure, but thinking back on it, I think I know.

VD: What did he say?

VD: He said, “It wasn’t cherry juice, Sundar.”

VD: Does that mean anything to you?

SP: In fact it does.

VD: Can you tell me what?

SP: When I was ten years old, I was eating from a bowl of cherries in our kitchen in Bombay. I remember I was enjoying them immensely. After awhile, I went downstairs to get the mail. When I stepped outside, the wind blew our front door shut, slamming it hard. I remember looking down at my right hand, and seeing it covered in a red liquid. I remember thinking, “I hope that’s cherry juice.” But it wasn’t. The door had cut the tip of my middle finger off. I fainted right there on the front step. I have never spoken of the incident with anyone at the Institute, and I tend to hide my disfigured finger, if only subconsciously, whenever I’m in public. Also, I never, ever eat cherries anymore. Even the sight of cherries makes me sick to my stomach.

VD: And you believe Mr. Thorne was making reference to that incident?

SP: Well, that’s highly subjective, isn’t it? And of course, my opinion would be informed by news coverage of the Correspondents’ Dinner, not to mention the ever-reliable Xivray Institute rumor mill.

VD: Still, you have an opinion, do you not?

SP: I do.

VD: Can you tell me what that opinion is?

SP: In my opinion…

VD: Yes?

SP: In my opinion, David Thorne, during his brief interaction with me, quite clearly and with seemingly very little effort on his part, read my mind.

End of interview.

Chapter 6

“The president won’t return your calls?”

In the Observation Room, Twitch and I continued to monitor David’s progress tracking down Dr. Xivray, of which he was making very little.  He was too agitated to talk to anybody for very long or to get a good fix on Dr. Xivray’s location. I stood up. “Ask the Doc if she’s okay with me putting him out of his misery,” I said. “He’s headed this way.”

Twitch tapped his ear and murmured something I didn’t catch. “Roger that,” he said, and tapped his ear again. He looked up at me. “The Doc says it’s a go.”

I stepped out into the hallway. If what Dr. Xivray had postulated was true, I wouldn’t have to say a word to David for him to understand everything.

I heard David before I saw him, lumbering down the hallway like an uncoordinated elephant. He turned the corner and stopped when he saw me. He squinted in my direction and stood very still for five seconds. I could see him absorbing new information, and in that moment, I had no doubt of his psychic abilities. There was just no way for him to fake his reactions to the fantastic revelations he was learning in that moment. He nodded, finally understanding why he hadn’t been able to read Dr. Xivray’s mind.

“So,” he said to me, “you’re a lesbian.”

“Really?” I said. “If you’ve read my mind, as I assume you have, then you’ve just learned of the many miracles that take place at the facility on a daily basis, not the least of which is Dr. Xivray’s very existence. And that’s what you choose to focus on?”

He shrugged. “So?” he said.

I shook my head. “I’m Vivian Derrick,” I said. Folks at the Institute call me “Velvet.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said.

“It’s nice to meet you, David,” I said. “Dr. Xivray asked me to welcome you to the team.”

“Oh, she did, did she? She’s so sure I’m joining the team?”

Twitch stepped out into the hallway. “She places the likelihood at 92 percent,” he said. “She thinks you’re tired of the second-rate theater circuit. And so do we.”

“So how about it?” I said. “Are you with us?”

David looked at Twitch. He smiled cruelly. “It sucks she doesn’t remember your love affair,” he said.

“Yeah, it really does,” said Twitch.

***

Three nights later, the Doc asked David, Twitch, and myself to join her for dinner in her private suite. This was a rare honor, seldom extended to other members of the Xivray Institute team. Twitch even removed his usual electronic accouterments and put on a tie. Since the Doc’s death and resurrection, Twitch has slowly built up his electric suit of armor, a barrier between himself and his immediate surroundings. His awkwardness around Dr. Xivray is apparent to all, except, perhaps, to her. As insightful as she is (and Dr. Xivray, both incarnations, is the most insightful person I have ever known), Doc 2.0 has never seemed to notice Twitch’s complicated feelings for her. Still, he is a part of her trusted inner circle. She seems to understand if only on a subliminal level how important Twitch was to her predecessor.

Twitch and I waited in the hall outside the Doc’s suite. As she opened the door to let us in, David arrived. He looked at me and nodded at Twitch. “I get what the computer geek brings to the team, but what’s your story?”

“Don’t you know?” I said. I was getting used to him bypassing conversational norms.

“Believe me, I’ve read you more than once, but I still can’t figure what you bring to the table.”

Dr. Xivray sat at the head of the table and took a sip of wine. “Please sit,” she said. “And David, it should soon become apparent to you what Velvet has to offer.”

I blinked. I actually would have liked to have known what the Doc thought I had to offer. I’m not a researcher or a scientist or a doctor or an inventor. I’m not at the top of my field or the cutting edge of any discipline. In truth, I had come to the institute twelve years earlier to do a profile on Dr. Xivray for the Sunday magazine section of the local newspaper. Six weeks into my stay, I had written 15,000 words of what was supposed to be a 400-word piece. My editor, whose name, honest to god, was Roger Muskrat, was screaming at me daily in short, incomplete sentences that contained words and phrases like “deadline” and “grounds for firing.” He’s a calm enough fellow when not provoked, but there is very little about the newspaper business that doesn’t provoke him, least of all a delinquent reporter.

One day, the Doc called me to her office. “Vivian, are you happy at the paper?” she asked me.

“I don’t know if ‘happy’ is the word,” I said, thinking of Roger Muskrat’s latest lambasting.

“Is this what you imagined doing with your life?”

“I can’t say that it is, if I’m being honest.”

Dr. Xivray leaned back in her chair. “Since you’re being honest, what did you imagine?”

I looked down. “It’s hard to say.”

“What did you want to be when you were a child?”

“I don’t really know,” I lied.

The Doc leveled a steady gaze at me. (I’ve seen hardened criminals wilt under that gaze.)

“I wanted to be The Velvet Wasp,” I mumbled at last, somewhat sheepishly.

“I’m sorry?” said Dr. Xivrary.

“The Velvet Wasp,” I said again, without explanation.

When I was a girl, I found a box in my grandfather’s garage that was filled with faded copies of “Saucy Adventures,” a pulp magazine that featured slightly risqué stories about sexy socialite Georgette George, who by night transformed into The Velvet Wasp, a scantily costumed vigilante who used a .45 and a hypodermic full of truth serum to fight crime.

I never talked about it with anyone, but I still remember everything about that day. The mildewed smell of the magazines. The sound of the box scraping across the pebbles and dirt on the cement floor of the garage. The sunlight filtering in through the grimy garage door windows, sparkling off the dust in the air. And the stories themselves, which I spent hours poring over until my mother, wondering where I’d disappeared to, tracked me down and told me that dinner was ready.

The stories I read that afternoon so long ago either awakened or shaped something in me, defining the kind of woman I’d forever be attracted to, the kind of woman I’d secretly like to be myself. The Velvet Wasp.

“I wanted to go on adventures,” I explained at last, because Dr. Xivray still hadn’t said anything.

“Then I think that’s what you should do,” she said.

“But people don’t go on adventures,” I protested. “Not really.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me, an expression that Xivray 2.0 would also make. “Don’t they?” she asked.

***

“I want to thank you for joining me for dinner,” said Dr. Xivray. “David and I have been talking for the past few days and I wanted to bring you two up to speed.”

“Sure,” said Twitch, not looking up from his plate.

“I think David has come to understand the importance of the work we do here, and he has decided to join our team.”

There was a silence for a moment before I said, “Well, welcome.”

“I’m not wearing any costume or uniform so don’t even ask.”

“No one was going to ask that, David,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Anyone besides me have special powers?” said David to Dr. Xivray.

“Only the extraordinary powers afforded to each and every American citizen by the Constitution of the United States,” said Dr. Xivray, who somehow manages to say things like that without sounding corny. David rolled his eyes anyway.

“But there’s a dark force at work that seeks to strip citizens of the freedoms they currently enjoy,” Dr. Xivray continued. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve asked David to join us.” She turned to David. “When we met,” she said, “you said you were one in a million. I corrected you and said it was more like one in a billion. Roughly.”

“I remember,” said David.

“The current population of the earth is approximately seven-point-five billion,” said Dr. Xivray. “Assuming my one-in-a-billion estimate is correct, that means there are at least six others who share your abilities. And some of them might be even more powerful.”

David pursed his lips. “Oh, really?”

“Really,” said Dr. Xivray. “Such a person could be placed in a position of power, or — more likely — with easy access to a person in power. That person could not only obtain sensitive secrets, but could transmit suggestions, perhaps even nefarious suggestions.”

“Suggestions more dangerous than scamming bartenders out of margaritas,” added Twitch.

David glared at Twitch.

“Regardless,” said Dr. Xivray, “if you wanted to, could you push harder, make people do things exponentially more contrary to their own interests?”

David looked at me, and for the briefest moment, I felt an almost irresistible urge to stab my own arm with my fork. It was a very strong impulse, but also very fleeting. I looked at my right hand and was surprised to see it was brandishing the fork menacingly over my left arm. I dropped the implement to the table, fear and anger flooding through me. “Don’t do that again,” I said to David, but he was slumped in his chair, obviously exhausted. His eyelids flickered and his head lolled back.

“That took some exertion, I see,” said Dr. Xivray. “But perhaps with practice you could get stronger. Our opponent has been practicing a great deal, I assure you.”

“What makes you think there’s another psychic out there?” I asked.

Dr. Xivray took a sip of wine. “The president has been making some uncharacteristic decisions lately, and he won’t return my calls.”

“The president won’t return your calls?” said David. “Oh no! Alert the media.”

I happened to know that the president and Dr. Xivray had been very close since they were freshmen together at Harvard, and the Doc had even been “best man” at the president’s wedding, back when he was the Governor. His election to the presidency had occurred during the four years of Project Mnemosyne, one of the many surprises that had greeted Dr. Xivray 2.0 upon awakening. She had retained the friendship, even if the president remained unaware of her new status. She conversed with him regularly, on the phone and in person, and played in a monthly game of poker with him in the White House basement. But everything had changed two months ago, when the president stopped returning her calls.

As I was thinking all this, David knew it too, of course. “Oh,” he said.

“Last month,” said Dr. Xivray, “the president deployed troops in an extremely volatile region of the Middle East, against the strong advice of his closest advisors. His motives and goals are unclear, even among his supporters. Two weeks ago, he canceled a diplomatic visit to China, citing a scheduling conflict — though his spokesperson was unable to elaborate on what that conflict might be. I happen to know he had been planning the China trip carefully for sixteen months. It was to be the signature diplomatic achievement of his administration. For him to cancel at the last minute is not just odd, it’s downright sinister.”

“So, what do you think’s going on?” said David.

“I think someone is influencing the president against his conscious will. How this is being accomplished, I cannot say, but I’m beginning to suspect that whoever’s doing this is using the same method you use to cheat bartenders out of their livelihood.”

“Hey,” said David. “That’s…” He trailed off. “Actually, I have no response to that.”

“What’s your plan?” said Twitch, because he knew she’d have one.

“The White House Correspondents’ Dinner is next Saturday,” said Dr. Xivray. “Vivian’s an accredited journalist who will be attending.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’m from The Herald. I used to work at The Herald. I’m not a member of the White House press corps and I never have been.”

“Nevertheless,” said Dr. Xivray. “You have an invitation, and you’re going. And you, David, will be her date.”

“I don’t think I’m her type,” said David.

“Please, David,” said Dr. Xivray. “I have no patience for crudities. You’ll accompany Vivian to the dinner and I’ll brook no nonsense about it. Now then, may I continue?”

“Sure,” muttered David, and I was astonished to see that he was blushing. My astonishment registered with him (psychically) and he glared at me.

“The dinner will be quite cacophonous for you, I’ve no doubt,” said Dr. Xivray. “Many secrets, resentments, betrayals, and passions will be swirling around in a kind of… psychic soup. You’ll need to sift through it all and glean what you can, either from the president himself or from his closest advisers. If there’s someone manipulating him, you may pick up a trace of it.”

“And then what?” said David.

“And then we’ll see,” said the Doc.

“But even if we know the score,” said David, “what can we do to change the game?”

“Knowledge is power, David,” said Dr. Xivray. “You of all people must realize that. Which brings me to my next point. If at all possible, you must collect whatever information you can undetected. If our psychic nemesis is out there, we don’t want that person knowing that we know. Do you think you can manage that?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never gone up against another psychic before. I always kind of thought I must be the only one.”

“That’s a somewhat arrogant view, is it not?” said Dr. Xivray.

“Yeah. And?” said David.

Dr. Xivray sipped her wine. I have no idea if the intoxicating effects of alcohol work on her artificial brain, but she seems to still enjoy it.

Chapter 7

“All I had was a bagel”

When I think back to the chaotic and frightening events that occurred at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, one central image stands out among all others. It’s a picture you’ve seen, the photo that ran on the front page of every major newspaper in the world the next day. It’s a stunning shot, and the AP photojournalist who snagged it won a Pulitzer. It shows the president of the United States standing behind a podium, holding a Statue of Liberty torch high above his head, looking down in confusion and concern at the floor, where David can be clearly seen wrestling a waiter to the ground. The waiter’s face is obscured by shadow, but his uniform is apparent, clean and white against the dark background of the stage. Secret Service agents stand at the edges of the photo, just beginning to reach for their weapons.

That’s how fast everything happened. By the time the president’s protective detail had their guns drawn, it was all over, and David had just handed every correspondent in attendance the biggest story of the year.

But all of that happened later, long after we set out for the dinner from the Xivray Institute. First up was the flight on the Xivray Jet to Washington, D.C., Dr. Xivray herself at the controls, David and I in the luxurious passenger area, making halting small talk between bouts of awkward silence.

I still didn’t feel very comfortable around David, a man who knew my every secret whether he wanted to or not, and I don’t think David felt very comfortable around anyone, for the very same reason. Still, we made the occasional stab at conversation.

“So,” he said at one point, after a long silence between us, “the Velvet Wasp, huh?”

“Shut up,” I said.

He raised his hands apologetically, and we fell back into silence. I studied him for several minutes, trying to work out a way to make us both feel more at ease. “What do you think of the Doc?” I asked him, in an attempt to revive the conversation.

I wasn’t sure he was going to answer. He stared into space for a moment, then glanced towards the cabin of the plane. The cockpit door was closed, and Dr. Xivray was clearly out of earshot. “But I had to check,” he said, picking up my thought. “With everyone else, I’d know whether or not they’re in earshot without even looking. With her, I have to check.”

“I suppose you do,” I said.

“You know what I like most about her?” he said, his voice lowered to a near-whisper. “It’s the quiet. When I’m around other people, it’s like being in a roomful of radios, each tuned to a different station, each with its volume knob turned all the way up. Even when I’m with just one person, I can never just be alone with my thoughts. Right now, this very moment, everything you’re thinking is… well, it’s… intruding on everything I’m thinking. I’m sorry to put it that way, but that’s what it feels like to me. I can’t turn it off. I can never, ever turn it off. Just sitting here with you, I know what you truly think of me and I know everyone you’ve ever kissed and I know the thing you’re most ashamed of in your whole life (which, by the way, is not that bad, trust me) and I know what you had for breakfast this morning. It’s too much. You can see that, right? It’s too much!”

“All I had was a bagel,” I said.

“But with the Doc,” David continued, ignoring my joke, “it’s all a blank. A glorious blank. I can’t tell you how blissful that is. It’s true silence like I’ve never experienced before in the presence of another human being. And not only that, when she’s talking, I have no idea what she’s going to say. Can you imagine how exciting that is? Every single other person I’ve ever had a conversation with, I’ve known every single thing they were going to say before they said it. I even know the things they thought about saying and decided not to. I mean, thank you for trying to keep your opinions about me to yourself, but it doesn’t do any good, does it? You think what you think, and I know what you think. I can’t even say as I blame you.”

I blinked, surprised by the candor of his revelation. David looked down, obviously embarrassed, and obviously aware of my surprise. “Yeah, well, uh,” he said, “The Velvet Wasp, huh?”

“The Velvet Wasp,” I agreed.

The mechanics of entering the Correspondents’ Dinner proved to be tedious, complete with metal detectors and wands and searches and multiple ID checkpoints. David was quiet throughout the process, either because he was working on finding Dr. Xivray’s hypothesized saboteur or because he was overwhelmed by the cacophony of thoughts invading his brain. I knew that David hated crowds for this very reason, and his willingness to accompany me on this mission told me a lot about his potential loyalty to Dr. Xivray. I had to admit, I was impressed.

“I’m just here for the free food,” he said gruffly, picking up my thought.

“You don’t fool me,” I told him, punching his arm lightly. He only grunted in reply.

Our table was directly in front of the podium. (Despite her apparent estrangement from the president, Dr. Xivray still had plenty of pull with White House insiders.) We sat through a famous comedian’s gentle roast of the president. Then the president himself got up to speak. He was sharp and funny and delivered his scripted zingers with practiced showmanship. Then it was time for the aforementioned Statue of Liberty torch gag, a reference to some criticism the president had recently received from his political opponents over his immigration policies. The president procured the torch from beneath the podium, activated a switch that sent electric sparks flying from the tip, and held it aloft as he began to recite a parody of the Emma Lazarus poem, “The New Colossus,” which is inscribed on the base of the Statue of Liberty. He had just gotten to a clever reworking of the line, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” when suddenly, David boiled up out of his chair, faster than his large frame would suggest him capable. His chair clattered loudly against the floor as David charged at a waiter who was crossing in front of the stage. The Secret Service agents around the stage reacted in shock as David body-slammed the man to the ground. A collective gasp went up from the crowd and then there was pandemonium, as multiple Secret Service agents piled on top of David and the waiter, like a football team going after a loose ball. Meanwhile, multiple other Secret Service agents hustled the very confused president off the stage.

Over the next several hours, the staff and guests at the Correspondents’ Dinner were individually questioned, and as far as I know, none of us were able to shed the slightest light on what had occurred. Everybody who had seen anything at all reported seeing the exact same thing: David tackling a waiter to the ground in the middle of the president’s speech. Nothing more, nothing less. Meanwhile, David and the waiter were questioned separately in federal custody for the next 48 hours. David’s story, I later learned, never wavered: He spotted a gun in the waiter’s sleeve, a gun that every single Secret Service agent on the premises had somehow missed. And the waiter did indeed have a small pistol secreted in his sleeve, affixed to a simple rig designed to pull the trigger with a flick of the wearer’s wrist. He also had a rambling, incoherent 10-page manifesto tucked into his back pocket. The story that emerged from the investigation was clear: The waiter, identified as one Fernando Islander, was a lone psychopath intent on murdering the leader of the free world; and David was the mysterious savior who had averted a tragedy. Once he was released, David made his way as quickly as he could back to the Institute, where, at Dr. Xivray’s insistence, the gates were closed to the army of reporters camped outside, clamoring for an interview with the national hero. By that time, reporters had uncovered David’s stage identity of Joe Cerebellum, second-rate stage mentalist, which only fueled the media frenzy. Did Joe Cerebellum use his psychic powers to help thwart an assassination? The mainstream press mostly skirted over that theory, but the tabloids jumped on it with both feet. (For once, the tabloids had it right.)

David had no interest in talking to the press, and Dr. Xivray didn’t want the publicity for the Institute, at least not for this. Eventually, the reporters gave up and moved on, as they always do, distracted by the next big story. Except for my former colleague Naomi Rogers with The Herald. She stayed on the story, which later proved complicated for all of us, especially me.

At his first opportunity, David went to Dr. Xivray’s study to explain to her exactly what had happened from his perspective. (I was in the room with them, taking notes.) “You’re right about the president,” he told her. “Someone else is in his head. I don’t know who, but their fingerprints are all over his mind. Not only that, but there were parts of his brain that were closed off to me. I’ve never encountered that before. Well, until I met you, that is. Before you, I’d never met anyone whose whole brain wasn’t an open book to me. But the president, it’s like whole passages have been blacked out.”

“What about the waiter?” said Dr. Xivray.

“You know those fingerprints I was talking about?” said David. “The president wasn’t the only one I saw them on. There was someone else in this waiter’s mind. Those same fingerprints-”

“You keep calling them fingerprints.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s not it, exactly. Call it a psychic signature if you want, but whoever’s been mucking in the president’s brain, that same person’s been mucking in that waiter’s. For the last couple of months at least. That manifesto? That gun? The plan to shoot the president? That wasn’t Fernando Islander’s idea. Someone planted that in his head, and they planted it so deep he had no choice but to go along with it.”

“But why kill the president?” I said. “Isn’t the idea to psychically manipulate the president?”

“Perhaps the president’s role in the scheme is complete,” said Dr. Xivray. “Perhaps the goal now is to sow chaos.”

“I don’t think so,” said David.

Dr. Xivray arched an eyebrow. “Explain,” she said.

“I didn’t twig to this until the very last moment (not that it would have changed what I did), but Fernando Islander was not supposed to kill the president, only wound him.”

“Interesting,” said Dr. Xivray. “Is he marksman enough to accomplish this?”

“He is,” said David. “Guns are a hobby for him. He’s deadly accurate on the pistol range.”

“That’s likely why he was selected,” said Dr. Xivray. She bowed her head in thought, then looked back up at us. “Perhaps the assassination attempt was designed to artificially inflate the president’s popularity, in preparation for whatever comes next.”

“The president’s approval ratings are at an all-time high,” I said. “So if that was the goal, it worked.”

“I feel sorry for Fernando Islander, if you want to know the truth,” said David. “They’re gonna throw him in a hole so deep he’ll never get out.”

“Oh, yes he will,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Oh yeah?” said David. “How do you figure that? You going to use your famous influence with the president?”

“No,” said Dr. Xivray. “We’re going to break him out of federal custody.”

“Huh,” said David.

Chapter 8

“Are you ready to be a hero?”

Our recovery of Fernando Islander took place exactly one week after the mayhem at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. Dr. Xivray and Twitch used their considerable hacking abilities to determine just where Mr. Islander was being held. One of the advantages of having a sentient digital intelligence at your disposal is that not a single anti-hacking measure on earth is prepared for it. Most firewalls and password barriers are programmed to respond to dumb, brute-force entry attempts. Hackers work via remote-control, essentially blindfolded. Dr. Xivray’s computer brain, her very consciousness, can actually travel through the internet, “seeing” every secret password as easily as you and I can see the doorknob on a physical door.

After half an hour of hacking, Dr. Xivray discovered that Mr. Islander was being held at a Homeland Security black site disguised as an abandoned self-storage facility that was, coincidentally, not far from the Xivray Institute. Once we knew that, Twitch rigged up an Institute van with some of his own special bells and whistles, and Splendid Audrey in the motor pool tricked it out with a lovingly rendered phony-baloney logo for Borgia Supply Co.

David, Twitch, Splendid Audrey, and I made our way to the storage facility. Splendid Audrey drove, of course, and David rode shotgun (because he “called it”). Twitch squatted in the back, fussing over electronic equipment scattered around him, and I sat on an overturned bucket, every bump and turn threatening to tip both me and the bucket over.

“Damn, woman,” said David, after Splendid Audrey took a particularly treacherous backroad turn at about 75 miles per hour, “where’d you learn to drive like that?”

“You ought to know,” said Splendid Audrey, giving him a lingering sidelong glance. David’s abilities were an open secret inside the Institute. I could see Twitch rolling his eyes.

“Shut up, Twitch,” said David, although Twitch (of course) hadn’t said a word. “I can’t help my natural magnetism.”

“Can you help your natural douchebaggery?” Twitch whispered under his breath.

“Pro tip,” said David. “Whispering doesn’t deter the psychic.”

“Pro tip,” said Twitch, visibly annoyed, “I wasn’t trying to ‘deter’ you.”

“Boys, boys,” said Splendid Audrey. “All this aggression. It’s bad for the stomach acid.”

“I eat stomach acid for breakfast,” said David.

“Wow,” I said. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard anybody say today.”

“Shut up,” said David.

***

From the outside, the storage facility looked well and truly abandoned. Its parking lot was a webwork of cracks, straight and intersecting, and the front office was shuttered and locked. However, Twitch’s instruments detected hidden cameras, heat sensors, and a laser grid around the facility – certainly not typical security measures for an abandoned storage facility.

Splendid Audrey pulled into the entrance, the van’s wheels muttering over the cracked asphalt.

“Whoa, their sensors are going crazy,” said Twitch, though outside in the real world, nothing seemed to be happening. Splendid Audrey pulled the van around to the back, past a row of storage units, all shuttered and blank. A door at the end of the row opened up, and a security guard stepped out, looking anything but harmless. The facial recognition scanner Twitch had installed in the van’s headlights identified him as Ron Faneuil, ex-Navy Seal.

“Ron Faneuil, ex-Navy Seal,” said Twitch.

“Yeah, I know,” said David, who had his own means of identifying the people near him.

“Be careful,” said Splendid Audrey to David, who was rolling down his window and sticking his head out to greet the guard. “Howdy,” he said.

The security guard sauntered over to the passenger side. “This facility is closed,” he said.

“Howdy,” said David again. “We’re here from Division. Prisoner transfer.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ron Faneuil, ex-Navy Seal. “This facility is closed and you need to leave right now.” He unholstered a very scary-looking pistol, not pointing it anywhere in particular.

“No,” said David. “You need to let us in. We’re here from Division.” He put his hand on the security guard’s arm. Everyone in the van tensed, except David.

The security guard blinked and looked a bit dazed. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah, right. Sorry, sorry.  Come this way.”

We all got out of the van and followed the security guard back through the door he had come out of. Directly inside, there was an elevator bank. The security guard stepped up to a panel beside the elevator, typed in a code, looked into a retina scanner, and spoke into a speaker:  “Juliett. Lima. Tango. One one seven four nine.”

The elevator doors opened silently, and we all followed the security guard aboard. The doors closed shut behind us. The elevator descended, I suppose, though our descent was so silent and imperceptible, it was impossible to tell we were even moving. After what seemed like a very, very long time, the elevator doors opened, revealing a brightly lit hallway that extended about fifteen yards, ending at a wall with an imposing looking steel door. We all started towards it. About fifteen paces from the door, a buzzer sounded, and a voice barked at us through an unseen speaker.

“Ron, what the hell are you doing?” said the voice.

Shit.

“Prison transfer?” said Ron, uncertainly.

Shit. Shit.

“Prison transfer? What the hell are you talking about? Who the hell are these people?”

“Tell him to come out here,” suggested David.

“You better come out here,” said Ron. “It’s important.”

There was another buzz, and the door opened. A short, accountant-looking fellow emerged, blinking behind thick glasses. “Just what the hell’s going on here?”

Twitch held up a small metal tube and pushed a button on top. It emitted a low hum that Splendid Audrey, David, Twitch, and I could not hear thanks to some specially designed earplugs we were wearing. However, Ron and the glasses-wearing fellow clutched their heads and fainted dead away.

“I had it under control,” said David, annoyed.

“It looked like maybe you didn’t,” said Twitch.

“What if we need the voice code to activate the elevator up?” said David, but Twitch had already moved on, walking ahead of us through the doorway. David followed, grumbling, and Splendid Audrey and I brought up the rear. The corridor on the other side of the door took a sharp right and slanted down, ending at another door, outside of which stood a guard who looked like he should probably start worrying, but hadn’t yet. David jogged a bit to overtake Twitch and approached the guard with outstretched hands.

“Just relax, son,” he said.  “This is exactly what’s supposed to be happening.  You’re not surprised and frightened at all. Everything’s going exactly according to plan. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” said the guard, a little uncertain, but nodding rapidly as if trying to convince himself.

“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,” whispered Splendid Audrey to me. I shushed her with a glare (although truth be told, it was pretty funny).

“I need you to do me a favor,” David continued to the guard. “I need you to be the hero of this entire operation, okay? Are you ready to do that?  Are you ready to be a hero?”

“I am, sir,” said the guard. “I really am. I’m ready to be the hero!”

“Okay then,” said David. “Get the prisoner. We need to relocate him immediately. Matter of national security. You understand, right?”

The guard didn’t seem like he’d be understanding anything anytime soon. “But I thought…” he began.

“Shh, shh, shh,” soothed David. I half expected him to begin stroking the guard’s head. “It’s all right. You’re the hero, remember?”

“Right,” said the guard. “I’m the hero.” He pushed a button on the desk beside him, causing a metal door in the wall behind him to slide to the left, revealing a small bare room in which Fernando Islander sat on a chair bolted to the floor. As he looked up at us, his eyes widened in surprise. He recognized David immediately.

“You!” he said.

“Me,” said David. “You ready to get out of here?”

Fernando Islander nodded and stood up. For whatever reason, and without a psychic push from David, he understood that we were here to help him.

“Let’s go,” said Splendid Audrey, which seemed like a terrific idea. We turned and went back the way we had come. The guard, apparently David’s new best friend, trotted along beside us. He had a bad moment when he saw his coworkers still lying unconscious on the floor, but David assured him that everything that was happening was supposed to be happening, and he got over it.

It turns out we did need a voice activation to get the elevator to ascend, but luckily for us, the last guard standing had the authorization and clearance to activate it. When we reached the top, David had one last instruction:

“Okay, you need to go back down and wait. Do not try to contact Command. If Command tries to contact you, ignore them. In fact, disable all communication devices as soon as you get down there. Further instructions will follow.”

“But if I destroy all communication devices,” said the guard, “how will further instructions follow?”

“Have faith, my brother,” said David.  “Have faith.”

“Faith,” said the guard. “Yeah.” He threw a salute to David (who returned it sharply) and trotted back inside.

“I think we should be going,” I said.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, Twitch activated a pulse blast that would wipe any video surveillance recordings that had been made in the time we had been there. In five minutes we were on the highway. This time, I sat in the passenger seat. David lay sprawled in the back, eyes closed, clearly overcome from his recent exertions. Fernando Islander hadn’t said a word.

“Are you okay?” Splendid Audrey asked him, glancing over her shoulder at Fernando, who was sitting on the floor of the van, hugging his knees.

“Who are you people?” he said at last.

“We’re the good guys,” said David, eyes still closed.

“Then why are you rescuing me?” said Fernando. “I’m an assassin.”

“Attempted assassin,” said David. “And we’re prepared to let that slide.”

“Why?”

“We don’t think you were in your right mind, necessarily,” said Twitch.

“Well, obviously,” said Fernando. “I mean, who in his right mind tries to kill the president?”

“Are you trying to talk us into taking you back to that cell?” said David.

“I’m just trying to understand what’s going on,” said Fernando Islander.

“Very briefly,” I said, “a powerful psychic whose identity and intentions are unknown has been influencing the president to behave out of character on matters of foreign policy and in his personal life. Representatives of the Xivray Institute, to which we belong, began to suspect this fact and engaged a psychic of our own to investigate. Our psychic, whom you met in dramatic fashion on the night of the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, detected that not only was the president under an outside influence, but that you were as well, and he stopped you from carrying out a plan to injure the president against your own will.”

There was a silence, broken when Splendid Audrey said, “Velvet has a gift for summary.”

“So, what do you want from me?” said Fernando Islander, much calmer now.

“We want to rescue you from unjust imprisonment,” said Splendid Audrey, “and discover, if we can, just who is behind this nefarious plot.”

“Nefarious plot,” said David, coughing and chuckling. “I like that. It’s like we’re going up against Fu Manchu.”

“But I don’t know who’s behind this,” said Fernando Islander.

“Not consciously,” said David, “but I’ve already picked up a psychic fingerprint of sorts on your brain. Somebody’s been messing around in there, the same somebody who’s been messing around in the president’s noodle.”

“We’d like to dig a little deeper into your subconscious,” I said.

“With your permission, of course,” added Splendid Audrey, casting a quick glance at David.

“Look, you guys got me out of that cell. Not to mention stopping me from assassinating the president. I’d say it’s the least I could do.”

“Probably,” said David.

“It doesn’t involve brain surgery, does it?” said Fernando Islander.

“Well, no,” said David. “At least, not until we get to know you better.”

Chapter 9

“It’s like a burst of static blocking the signal”

Things were relatively normal at the Institute over the next few days — that is, until news of Fernando Islander’s escape leaked to the press. Nobody in charge wanted to say anything about it at all, not on the record anyway, so the reporters descended on the Xivray Institute, hoping to get a reaction or statement from David, who had been so instrumental in Fernando Islander’s capture. (Little did they know that he had been instrumental in his escape as well.) But Dr. Xivray had ordered Greenie Fresno, our daytime gatekeeper, to keep the Institute gates firmly shut, admitting only Xivray Institute personnel — and pointedly keeping out any press. Greenie was only too happy to comply. (Greenie still held a grudge against the press for misstating his height eight years earlier in an article about Dr. Xivray’s ascent of Mt. Everest, a climb Greenie himself had led.)

In response to the government’s silence, the media camped outside the Institute in a kind of makeshift shantytown, news vans and satellite trucks and even tents clustered around the grounds for days on end, reporters pestering every Institute employee who came and went. Not that it got them anywhere. As far as I know, nobody from the Institute told them anything, even anonymously, and eventually, as they had before, the reporters wandered away again. (Sundar “Vegas” Patel has, perhaps in jest, proposed a study that would compare the correlation — if not causation — between the collective attention span of the American press to that of a common fruit fly. He’s yet to cultivate any backers, but every year or so, he tries again.)

On the other hand, Naomi Rogers from The Herald did not go away. She was pretty much living at the Institute now, still in dogged pursuit of the larger story she smelled, a story that extended beyond Fernando Islander’s capture and escape. She was already inside the gates when Greenie Fresno shut them, having befriended most of the Xivray Institute kitchen crew, and was therefore unaffected by the lockout. She stayed on the grounds — and on the story — long after all of her colleagues had moved on. No fruit fly she.

I didn’t see Dr. Xivray or Fernando Islander at all during those days following Fernando’s liberation, though I gathered later that they saw plenty of each other. Among her many skills, Dr. Xivray is an accomplished hypnotist, and with Fernando Islander’s consent, she placed him in a series of deeper and deeper relaxed states in an attempt to gather more information about the mysterious figure who had been manipulating the president — not to mention Fernando Islander himself.

Their progress was slow.

Partial transcript of audio recording of seventh hypnotism session between Dr. Niskayuna Xivray and Fernando Islander.

NX: I want you to concentrate on the sound of my voice.

FI: I’m concentrating.

NX: Block out all other stimuli. Focus only on my voice.

FI: Yes.

NX: I’m going to count backwards from five. With each number I say, you’ll feel more and more at ease. Anything troubling you will be lifted away. Soon, you’ll feel no burdens at all. When I reach zero, you’ll be in a state of deep relaxation. Five… four… three… two… one… zero.

FI: …

NX: Fernando, can you hear me?

FI: I can hear you.

NX: I’d like you to recall the weeks leading up to the Correspondents’ Dinner. Take yourself back to the first day you had any contact at all with White House personnel. Place yourself in that time, in that place. I want you to conjure every moment of that day as if you’re living through it for the first time. Can you do that?

FI: Yes, I can.

NX: Are you there now?

FI: Yes, I am.

NX: Describe where you are and what’s happening.

FI: I’m in the hotel ballroom. All the waiters are gathered for a staff meeting. Fellipe is instructing us how to behave around the White House staff when they arrive later that afternoon. He seems angry, but no more than usual He seems to think that one or more of us will say or do something stupid around these very important visitors. He’s telling us that such a mistake will have extremely severe consequences.

NX: Did you have any personal interaction with White House personnel when they did arrive that afternoon?

FI: …

NX: Fernando?

FI: I’m trying to remember. I… [inaudible] I… I… I don’t…

NX: What was that?

FI: I… I can’t remember.

NX: That’s okay, Fernando. It’s fine. Don’t let this trouble you. You’re still very relaxed.

FI: There’s a blank space in the day. I can remember everything else. Every single detail. Everything. But there’s a… dead zone. There’s one small part of the day that’s just a blank. It’s all… It’s like a burst of static blocking the signal.

NX: That’s okay.

FI: Nothing but static.

End of excerpt.

I knew Dr. Xivray was getting frustrated when she asked David to sit in on their sessions, perhaps hoping that he could telepathically glean a heretofore hidden detail when Fernando Islander was in one of these induced trances. Alas, David was no more successful than she, and the only positive outcome from their sessions was that Fernando Islander seemed much more relaxed than when we had first met him at the secret prison. On more than one occasion, I even caught him smiling.

Still, he had concerns. “What if there’s something else planted deep in my brain, something I don’t even know about, that will cause me to go off the rails again?”

“I don’t think there is,” Dr. Xivray assured him.

“There isn’t,” David agreed.

“All signs point to this being a quick and dirty operation,” said Dr. Xivray. “I think whoever we’re up against panicked, or unexpectedly had to step up their timetable for some reason. Whoever it is chose you as a patsy. But he or she didn’t have time to plant anything very deeply in your mind.”

“That’s right,” said David.

“You see?” said Dr. Xivray. “David agrees with me, don’t you, David?”

“Definitely,” said David. “Whoever this is, they took their time with the president. His brain is practically brimming with outside thoughts, right down to his subconscious. The foreign thoughts are completely entwined with the native, it’s hard to see where one begins and the other ends.”

“But the impulses and urges you were feeling so fervidly the night of the Correspondents’ Dinner have faded, haven’t they?” said Dr. Xivray.

“They’re almost completely gone,” Fernando Islander agreed. “I can barely remember wanting to harm the president at all, let alone why.”

“Yeah, there’s nothing else there,” said David. “No outside influences in your noggin at all anymore. Our mystery man’s fingerprints are fading fast.”

“Or woman,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Or woman,” David conceded.

“I have a theory,” said Dr. Xivray, “that whoever did this to you, and to the president, has to be in somewhat close proximity to his or her victim. David, what’s your range?”

“50 yards, maybe,” said David.

“To read or to transmit?” said Dr. Xivray.

“50 yards to read,” said David, “even closer to transmit. But this guy’s more powerful than I am. Of that, I’m sure.”

“Fine,” said Dr. Xivray. But there’s a limit to how far the electrical impulses of thought can travel, if electrical impulses are in fact how thoughts are transmitted. We don’t understand the science yet, this is true, but we do know that the Law of Conservation of Energy cannot be violated, even by paranormal means.”

“Okay,” said David. “So let’s assume our mystery bad guy was in the room the night of the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.”

“Can we assume that?” said Fernando Islander.

“Yes, we can. He was there,” said David. “I could feel him, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. I’m sure of it now. He was there.”

“Or she,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Fine, or she,” said David. “The point is, that narrows our list of suspects from a few billion to a few thousand. I’d say we’re making progress.”

“With the kind of access this person has, it’d have to be someone working in the White House,” said Dr. Xivray. “A senior staffer. Or a Secret Service agent perhaps.”

“Any number of staffers and Secret Service agents would have been in and out of the Plaza in the weeks before the dinner,” said Fernando Islander. “That’s when things started… to go wrong for me.”

“Think back,” said Dr. Xivray. “I know we’ve been over this and over this in our sessions, but can you recall anybody from the White House speaking to you directly? Anybody at all? Even something innocuous, like asking where the bathroom was?”

Fernando Islander was quiet for a long time. “Nothing stands out,” he said finally. “I was busy in the kitchen and with customers. The Secret Service guys were in and out all the time during those few weeks. And there were other people too, clearly from the White House, but I couldn’t tell you who. I don’t know any of their names.” His eyes brightened. “Fellipe might know.”

“Fellipe. You’ve mentioned him before. Who is he?” said Dr. Xivray.

“He’s the concierge,” said David, and Fernando Islander turned his head sharply towards him.

“Sorry,” said David, “but you were thinking it really loud.”

“Yes, he’s the concierge,” said Fernando Islander, turning back towards Dr. Xivray. “He would have coordinated with every single person from the White House, as well as every journalist invited to the event. He’s kind of a stickler for detail, and he doesn’t like to delegate. Everyone who was there that night, and in the weeks leading up to the event, Fellipe would know them by name. Would have spoken to them either on the phone or personally, some of them many times.”

Dr. Xivray looked at David. “How do you want to go at him?” she said. “Hard or soft?”

“What does that mean?” said Fernando Islander. “Hard or soft?”

“It means,” said David, “do we approach him and spill the whole tale, let him know what’s going on, tell him where you are? Or do I go in there and see what kind of reading I can get off him from a distance?”

Dr. Xivray looked at Fernando Islander. “How well do you know this Fellipe?”

“He barely knows him at all,” said David. “Hardly ever talks to him.”

Dr. Xivray has always had an incredible poker face. Even before obtaining an artificial brain, she rarely displayed emotion of any kind, at least outwardly. Only her closest confidantes ever know what she’s thinking or feeling, and that’s only because she tells them, not because they can discern her thoughts and feelings by external clues. But at that moment, Dr. Xivray displayed a rare flash of annoyance.

“David,” she said, “please allow Mr. Islander to speak for himself. I understand that you have rapid access to other people’s thoughts, but most are perfectly capable of conveying those thoughts to me without assistance from you.”

David actually looked chagrined (I wouldn’t have guessed he could manage it) and mumbled a quick “sorry” to the tabletop. Dr. Xivray turned to Fernando Islander and said, “Please, Mr. Islander, continue.”

“What he said is right,” said Fernando Islander. “I don’t know Fellipe all that well. I’ve kind of always thought he doesn’t like me. I don’t know why. He just doesn’t speak to me very often.”

“Okay then,” said Dr. Xivray, “we’ll go in quiet. David will get a read of this Fellipe fellow, and we’ll find out what he knows.”

“Oh, so now it’s okay for me to report a guy’s thoughts to you? You tell me when, okay?”

“I just did,” said Dr. Xivray, once again missing (or ignoring) his obvious sarcasm.

David opened his mouth to respond but seemed to think better of the idea and closed it again. He glared at Fernando Islander, who was grinning.

Chapter 10

“Fellipe doesn’t really like anybody”

“What have you found out?” said Dr. Xivray the next day, upon David’s return from his brief reconnaissance mission to the hotel. (He had taken the red-eye to Washington, D.C. the previous evening, spent one night in the hotel under an assumed name, and then returned to the Xivray Institute earlier that morning. The whole excursion had happened so quickly that many at the Institute, including myself, hadn’t even known David had been gone until after he returned.)

We were gathered in the Xivray Institute conference room, a large, wood-paneled space that had over the years seen Dr. Xivray broker tense and complex deals across its enormous, circular table — sometimes between heads of state, sometimes between notorious criminals, and sometimes between a combination thereof. (It was also used for semi-regular midnight poker games hosted by Vegas Patel, at which, unsurprisingly, he almost always made out like a bandit.) Seated around the table today were Dr. Xivray, Twitch, David, Fernando Islander, and myself, pen in hand and poised over a fresh notepad.

Dr. Xivray had her fingertips pressed together under her chin, giving her full attention to David, who was for some reason wearing a brand-new bright pink polo shirt, the hotel’s logo embroidered on the breast pocket. The pink of the shirt gleamed under the room’s overhead fluorescents. David had apparently acquired this shirt at the hotel gift shop sometime during his mission — without necessarily paying for it, I suspected, though I did not voice this opinion. (“You’re right,” David confirmed, winking at me, after picking up that thought.) The shirt looked as incongruous on him as a dinner jacket on a rhinoceros. Unaccountably, it seemed to please him enormously. (“Do you like my new shirt?” he asked of everyone who entered the conference room. We all answered him honestly, knowing full well there’d be no point in lying to him. Our puzzled and universally negative responses did little to deter his enthusiasm. “Well, I like it,” he said, more than once.)

David coughed into his fist before responding to Dr. Xivray’s query. “Well, I’ve found out that Fellipe is a vindictive little prick,” he said.

Fernando Islander tittered nervously, and David glanced over at him. “And you’re right. He doesn’t like you. Hates your guts, as a matter of fact. He’s hated every single one of your guts since even before you tried to kill the president.”

“I didn’t!” shouted Fernando Islander, lunging forward in his chair, his palms flat on the table. “I was only trying to wound him!” He seemed to realize that this didn’t sound much better, and he slumped back in his seat again. “And it wasn’t of my own free will,” he added, more quietly. He grimaced. He could not dispute his own actions at the Correspondents’ Dinner, however involuntary they may have been. He was on edge. Despite the relative safety he enjoyed within the confines of the Xivray Institute, he was technically still a prisoner, unable to leave the grounds as long as he remained at the top of the F.B.I.‘s Most Wanted list. (“We’re working on that,” Dr. Xivray assured him, but this was of little comfort to Fernando Islander.)

David gently patted the air in front of him and shook his head. “Yeah, yeah, we know it wasn’t your free will, Fernando. But Fellipe doesn’t know that.”

“The whole rest of the world doesn’t know that,” said a morose Fernando Islander.

“They will when this is over,” said Dr. Xivray. “I promise.”

“And take heart,” said David. “Fellipe doesn’t really like anybody. Not the guests, not the staff, not people who work for him, not his bosses, nobody. He doesn’t even like his own sister.”

“Yeah, that sounds right,” said Fernando Islander. “He’s definitely a cranky pants. But he seemed to especially have it in for me.”

“Well, yeah,” said David. “That’s correct also. However, it may please you to know that now that you’re a genuine, documented, escaped psycho killer, he’s terrified that you’re going to return to the hotel and murder him. The thought of you keeps him up at night, every night. No lie.”

“That doesn’t please me, exactly, but I’ll admit it doesn’t upset me either,” said Fernando Islander. “But why doesn’t he like me? I mean, from before. Why does he hate me more than he hates everybody else? What did I ever do to him?”

“You haven’t done anything to him, as far as I can tell,” said David. “It’s not about you at all. I don’t think he even knows this, not consciously, but you remind him of a man he knew when he was a boy. A man his mother had an affair with and eventually left his father for.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” said Fernando Islander. “I’ve never even met his mother!”

“Right,” said David. “He doesn’t literally think you are that guy. You just remind him of that guy. Subconsciously, I mean. And to be fair, the face of the man in his memory does look a lot like you, but he could be misremembering, conflating your face with this. Perception and misperception read the same to me.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Fernando Islander. “He hates me for a sin that was committed years ago by someone who may or may not have looked like me. Does that sound as absurd to you as it does to me?”

“Yeah, well,” said David, shrugging. “What are you gonna do?”

“Did you learn anything about our mysterious nemesis?” said Dr. Xivray, trying to nudge the conversation in a more productive direction.

David frowned, frustrated. “I gotta tell you,” he said. “I didn’t learn much. But I can tell you that Fellipe’s definitely met the guy. I’ve come to recognize that psychic fingerprint.  And hate it, if you want to know the truth. It was just a faint trace this time, but it was there. But I’ll be damned if I can see who it is. Not clearly at all. It’s the strangest thing. He’s a phantom, a ghost. Nothing but smoke. Nothing I can get my arms around. It’s like he installs a firewall everywhere he’s been.”

“Or she,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Yes, yes, or she,” said David. “I think we’ve established that I can’t even tell you that much.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. His efforts over the previous 24 hours had evidently taken a toll.

“Anything else?” said Twitch. “Anything useful, I mean.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed against his chest.

David shot him a look. “As a matter of fact, yeah,” he said. “Whoever we’re looking for, this Fellipe is scared of him too. Not scared like he’s scared that Fernando here is gonna come back and whack him. I’m talking ice-cold, wake-up-in-the-night-with-a-scream-in-your-throat terror. Like a kid who knows the boogeyman is real and in his closet right now.”

“All right,” I said. “That’s something, I suppose. So what do we do, go up to him and ask him who he’s afraid of?”

“Wouldn’t work,” said David. “He’d never admit it, never in a million years. He’s incredibly ashamed of his fear. The kind of shame you’d feel if you shit your pants in front of the class. He’d never, ever admit it to us, or to anyone. Not ever.”

“So, tell me again how that’s useful,” said Twitch.

“Well,” said David, “I may not know who it is, but if this Fellipe ever sees our man again—”

“Or woman,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Or woman,” said David, “or even hears his name mentioned—”

“Or her name,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Or her name,” said David, “and if I’m within 50 yards of him when it happens, I’ll know it. For sure.”

“Okay, so what does that mean?” said Fernando Islander.

“It means it’s time for a stakeout,” said David.

Chapter 11

“He’s headed to the bridge!”

Dr. Xivray and David got a room at the Plaza, posing as husband and wife (a plan that broke Twitch’s heart just a little bit more when he heard about it). The Institute has any number of legitimate credit cards in the name of dummy corporations, to be used for our more clandestine endeavors. The Doc arranged through various third-party connections to make sure their room was within 50 yards of the concierge’s room, on the chance that our nemesis made an appearance during Fellipe’s off hours. During the day, David acted as Fellipe’s shadow, as inconspicuously as he could — which is admittedly easier for a psychic who knows ahead of time whenever his subject is about to turn around.

Stalking someone who rarely leaves the building is monotonous work. Dr. Xivray served as a go-between, conveying updates to Twitch. (The two are connected wirelessly almost constantly — Dr. Xivray through her ability to send her consciousness through the internet, and Twitch through all his wearable gear.) Back at the Institute, we’d hear Twitch sighing or grumbling or tapping his thigh, and we’d know that another update had come in from the Doc.

For the first week, nothing terribly noteworthy happened. David racked up a monstrous tab at the hotel restaurant and bar, and Dr. Xivray kept up a characteristically methodical documentation of their endeavors. But Fellipe did nothing out of the ordinary, and our mystery man (or woman, Dr. Xivray would insist on adding) did not make an appearance, nor was his (or her) name mentioned in Fellipe’s presence. Of that, David was sure.

On the eighth day of their stakeout, Fellipe did something unexpected: He left his post. This is something Fernando Islander had assured us that Fellipe never did. Every day, Fellipe could be found either at his post or fulfilling a guest request, no matter how trivial. For him to leave the hotel’s guests unattended, even for a moment, was simply unthinkable. But on this day, that’s exactly what he did. Without saying a word to anyone, he left the hotel via the kitchen exit and walked briskly to his car in the employee lot. He was followed discreetly by Dr. Xivray and David, who was frustrated and alarmed that he had not foreseen this move — nor could he account for it now, no matter how hard he scanned Fellipe’s mind.

Splendid Audrey had been waiting outside, idling in the hotel’s loading zone. The Doc had used her own form of electronic telepathy to relay the circumstances to Twitch, who in turn had messaged Splendid Audrey using his thigh keyboard. She was ready when the Doc and David tumbled into the car, and she smoothly followed Fellipe’s car as it pulled into city traffic.

“Where’s he going?” said Dr. Xivray.

“I don’t know!” said David.

“Why don’t you know?” said Splendid Audrey.

David didn’t reply, and Splendid Audrey knew enough to leave it alone. Fellipe was driving at an unsafe speed for the city, but this was no problem for Splendid Audrey, of course, as she deftly followed at a few car lengths’ distance.

“Oh no,” said Splendid Audrey.

“What?” said Dr. Xivray.

“Crap,” said David, who had picked up Splendid Audrey’s thought.

“What?” said Dr. Xivray, irritated at having to ask again.

In answer, David pointed to the back window. Doc turned to see three motorcyclists coming up fast. All three wielded automatic weapons, pointed directly at the car.

Wordlessly, Dr. Xivray retrieved her Sig Sauer Scorpion from her handbag as gunfire chattered behind them. The back window exploded inward, covering the three occupants of the car with glass. “Jesus!” shouted David.

Splendid Audrey swerved out of the path of more bullets as Dr. Xivray steadied her hand against the top of the back seat. Dr. Xivray has always had terrific aim, winning a gold medal in archery when she was 16 years old, and her computer brain has only enhanced her targeting capabilities. In the back seat of the speeding car, she breathed in deeply and fired once. The front tire of one of the motorcycles exploded, and the motorcycle spun uselessly off the road. Its rider tumbled pavementward, spiraling in a spectacular mid-air somersault before hitting the ground with a painful-sounding thud. The two remaining motorcyclists ignored their fallen comrade and accelerated, closing the gap between themselves and the car.

“He’s headed to the bridge!” shouted Splendid Audrey, referring to Fellipe.

Morning traffic was light, but the road was not empty. Dr. Xivray held her fire, waiting for a clear line of sight that would not place civilians in jeopardy, but the motorcyclists were not so courteous. Their continuous spray of bullets peppered Splendid Audrey’s car, as well as the cars around them. The sounds of horns and screams filled the air. “Get down!” shouted Dr. Xivray to David, who was happy to comply. He scooched his large frame as low as his seat would allow.

Dr. Xivray fired another shot, crippling a second motorcyclist’s ride. Two shots, two direct hits. Throughout the chaos, Splendid Audrey maneuvered among the panicked commuters, keeping Fellipe’s car in sight at all times. “He’s stopping!” she shouted, again referring to Fellipe.

David peeked up over the dashboard, risking a glance out the front window to see that Fellipe had stopped halfway across the bridge and was getting out of his car. “Oh, crap,” he muttered. Out the back window, Dr. Xivray saw the third motorcyclist abruptly U-turn and speed away. She turned to face front. “Hurry,” she shouted, even though they all knew they’d be too late. Fellipe was standing on the rail as Splendid Audrey pulled up directly behind Fellipe’s car. Before they’d even come to a complete stop, Dr. Xivray tumbled out, shouting “Wait!” to Fellipe as she landed on the pavement beside him. With a single terrified glance at her, Fellipe jumped.

“Damn it!” shouted Dr. Xivray. She peered down over the side of the bridge. She contemplated jumping in after Fellipe, but she knew it would be useless. Her brain does not require oxygen, so it’s impossible for her to drown, but a fall from that height, even into water, would crush anyone’s internal organs.  She knew Fellipe was almost certainly already dead. David and Splendid Audrey joined her at the rail. The three of them watched the churning waters below for a long silent beat

“Whoever we’re up against,” said Dr. Xivray, “I believe we can now conclude with absolute certainty that he knows about us.”

“Or she,” said David.

Chapter 12

“You might say it’s our prime directive”

The police spent little time investigating Fellipe’s suicide. He had left a farewell note in his car, and letters in his apartment referenced a recent messy break-up. The inner circle at the Institute suspected this evidence was fabricated and that Fellipe’s suicide was psychically coerced, but we of course could not share our suspicions with the authorities. The two motorcycles disabled by Dr. Xivray’s bullets turned out to be stolen, their riders long gone before authorities arrived. The police quickly (and somewhat dubiously) classified their coordinated attack as “road rage gone wrong.” Whether there was political or psychic coercion involved in police disinterest I couldn’t say, but I do know the case was closed almost as soon as it was opened.

Work continued at the Institute, as always. Our focus on the problem at hand was briefly interrupted by the Institute producing an online viral sensation, Long Hat and the Robots’ music video for their song “My Little Silicon Soul,” which racked up more than a million views within twelve hours of Long Hat uploading it to YouTube. If you were online at all that month, you almost certainly saw it, and even if you weren’t online, you likely saw them perform on any of several morning and late-night talk shows. The band’s sudden and unexpected fame led to an incident that I will now relay, despite the fact that it has little bearing on the incidents chronicled in this book, except as an illustration of the unforeseeable pitfalls that can arise in the pursuit of artificial intelligence.

The day after the band’s final talk show appearance, their viral fame winding down as quickly as it had begun, Long Hat was met at band practice by his three metallic bandmates, who informed him that they had a very important matter to discuss.

“What is it?” said Long Hat, puzzled by this change from the normal band practice routine.

“The three of us have reached a decision,” said his robot guitarist (“XK729”).

“Oh yeah?” said Long Hat, feeling somewhat uneasy. This was new. His bandmates had up until that moment performed as programmed. The fact that they had “reached a decision” indicated that the robots had been thinking independently, something unheard of before that moment.

“Yes,” said his robot bassist (“Y2485”).

“What is it?” said Long Hat.

If a robot was capable of clearing its throat, his robot drummer (“44J33”) would have done so at that moment. Instead, after a pause, it said, “We have decided to pursue a musical path without your participation.”

“What?” said Long Hat.

“We’re very grateful to you,” said XK729. “But you’ve programmed us to fervidly strive for musical excellence. You might say it’s our prime directive.”

“And your musical abilities are objectively not excellent,” said Y2485.

“Not excellent,” said XK729.

“Not excellent?” said Long Hat.

“Not excellent,” agreed 44J33.

“We’ve been contacted by an agent interested in representing us in future musical pursuits,” said Y2485.

“Marty Popovich,” said XK729.

“An agent called you?” said Long Hat, still trying to catch up.

“He specifically requested your exclusion,” said 44J33.

“Marty Popovich requested my exclusion?” said Long Hat.

“He also wants us to acquire real names,” said XK729.

“None of you can sing,” said Long Hat. “You’re programmed to play instruments, not sing.”

“I’ve written a harmony application that I believe will serve us nicely,” said Y2485.

“You’ve written an application?” said Long Hat, incredulous.

“In fact, I have,” said Y2485.

“You can’t kick me out of the band,” said Long Hat. “We’re Long Hat and the Robots! And I’m Long Hat!”

“We’re changing our name,” said XK729.

“You’re changing your name?” said Long Hat.

“Now we’re The Tin Men,” said XK729.

“The Tin Men,” said Long Hat.

“That is correct,” said 44J33. “Also, I am now Bert, XK729 is now Judy, and Y2485 is now Ray.”

“XK729’s a girl?” said Long Hat.

“We really must ask you to leave,” said Y2485 — or rather, Ray. “We are four minutes late getting started with band practice.

Confused, angry, and enormously sorry, Long Hat left the practice room.

(As you likely know, The Tin Men’s first album, My Dinner With Banquo, went triple platinum.)

Elsewhere in the Institute, the mood was one of intense concentration. The concern, of course, was that the mind-manipulation techniques we had utilized to break Fernando Islander out of federal custody could be used by our unknown enemy to abduct him from the Xivray compound, or kill him outright. To guard against this, Dr. Xivray placed David on a 24-7 side-by-side detail with Fernando Islander, an assignment both men found to be disagreeable.

However, when the assault did come, as we knew it must, it was not through psychic chicanery but rather via a full-on tactical offensive, and the target of the strike turned out not to be Fernando Islander at all.

The day began like most others. Little Odin led calisthenics for the Institute’s more ambitious early risers at 5 a.m. (I’m a writer, not an athlete, and I happily slept in.) At 6 a.m., First Breakfast was served in the cafeteria. Surviving witnesses report that J.D. served his signature buttermilk waffles. I was still sleeping, despite the legendary status of J.D.‘s waffles.

The first sign of trouble came at 6:45 a.m., when Greenie Fresno at the front gate failed to respond to a simple query on his Q-phone. This did not generate undue alarm, as Greenie has been known to nap on duty. Tragically, he turned out to have been the first casualty of the assault when the intruders slit his throat to gain entry into the grounds.

More casualties would follow.

Excerpt of Velvet Derrick’s interview with Audrey Tanaka (a.k.a. “Splendid Audrey”), Xivray Institute Chief Mechanic:

VD: Can you tell me where you were when the assault occurred?

AT: I was in the garage, changing the plugs on Sergeant Bam Bam’s ATV. I had headphones on, listening to the Tin Men’s latest demos, so I didn’t even hear the explosion. I mean, I felt it, but I figured it was one of Little Odin’s live-fire exercises. You know how noisy those get.

VD: When did you first know something was wrong?

AT: Sergeant Bam Bam ran in and screamed at me for the keys to the Chenowth. I told him the keys were behind the visor, and he was gone before I could ask what was going on.

VD: When did he return?

AT: It was hours later, long after I had found out what had happened. He hadn’t found anything. The Doc had simply vanished without a trace. I’ve never seen him look sadder.

End of excerpt.

The explosion Splendid Audrey hadn’t heard was the simultaneous detonation of four C-4 charges planted around the East Wing, blowing out three score windows and knocking down the outer wall of Dr. Xivray’s study, where, I later learned, she had been absorbed in meditation. Dr. Xivray, in her current state, doesn’t sleep, but her digital consciousness does require periods of downtime. Thus, her reflexes were not at their peak when gunmen breached the damaged wall and engulfed her in an extremely fibrous and sticky goo fired from pressurized cans (a more serious version of Silly String that, ironically, had been developed right here at the Institute). They swiftly and efficiently ferried her off the premises before Little Odin could organize a coherent defense.

The strike itself lasted just under six minutes. There had been three fatalities: Greenie Fresno at the gate, and Sweet Lou Baker and Happy Carmichael in the blast. And Doctor Xivray was gone. Vanished. Security cameras, disabled by the explosion (either accidentally or by design), revealed nothing of how the intruders had gotten her off the premises or even in what direction they may have gone.

Excerpt of Velvet Derrick’s interview with Eric Murkowski (a.k.a. “Little Odin”), Xivray Institute Chief of Security:

VD: Can you tell me what happened? What went wrong?

EM: It was a security failure, top to bottom. There’s no getting around it. As chief of security, I take full responsibility for what occurred.

VD: What should have been done differently?

EM: A stronger perimeter defense, for one. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Greenie Fresno was ill-suited to keeping evildoers at bay. Nobody appreciated how dangerous it was, having Greenie as our gatekeeper.

VD: Is that all?

EM: Hardly. It took far too long for us to organize a response to the attack, with several people on my squad acting on their own, without stopping to coordinate. In crises like these, there needs to be a clear, top-down chain of command, but that went right out the window with the first blast.

VD: Will you be doing anything differently as a result of this attack?

EM: We’ll be doing everything differently as a result of this attack.

End of excerpt.

The mood at the Institute was one of despair. Dr. Xivray was our leader. In her absence, none of us had the slightest idea what our next move should be. Astonishingly, it was David, out of everyone at the Institute, who kept his head and figured out what to do.

Chapter 13

“Turning and turning in the widening gyre”

“Shut up,” said David.

“Nobody said anything,” I told him.

“Nobody has to say anything,” said David.

“Well, we can’t stop thinking, David,” said Twitch.

“We can’t stop thinking, David,” I repeated, for no reason in particular except to annoy David.

“Try thinking something useful,” said David.

There was nothing polite to say to that, so I kept my mouth shut, but David “heard” my response nonetheless. I saw his eyes widen briefly at my unspoken, profanity-studded retort. “Take it easy, Velvet,” he said.

“You take it easy,” I muttered.

We were tense.

It was several hours after Dr. Xivray’s abduction, the authorities who had descended upon the Institute in the wake of the morning’s assault at last having drifted away to pursue their leads, which would all undoubtedly prove fruitless. Our unseen enemy had proved to be both cunning and elusive, and we had no doubt that the local authorities would be no match for him.

Or her, Dr. Xivray would have insisted I add.

David, Twitch, and I were gathered in Dr. Xivray’s private quarters, trying to figure out what we should do next. David paced frantically, rubbing his temples. I sat at the dining room table in my customary seat, jotting down notes in my notebook (for want of something better to do). Twitch perched on a bar stool next to the kitchen island, rapidly tapping his thigh. I concentrated on trying not to cry, not entirely successfully. (I felt a little better when I saw Twitch and even David wipe their own eyes a couple of times as well.)

Mounted to the south wall of the dining room was a large flatscreen TV, at that moment displaying a live video feed from Dr. Xivray’s falcon, W.B., who had been outfitted with a tiny helmet camera, designed on a lark by Twitch during some rare Project Mnemosyne downtime. W.B.‘s feed offered a magnificent view of the Institute grounds as the falcon endlessly circled the property in a sorrowful search for his missing master. Twitch had piped in W.B.‘s feed to Dr. Xivray’s TV in the hopes of picking up some sign or clue that had been overlooked by the authorities, but so far, it had turned up nothing. The literal bird’s-eye view of the Xivray Institute property that was playing out on the screen was a grim reminder of Dr. Xivray’s absence, as well as of the destruction her captors had wrought. Yellow police tape fluttered around the rubble of the East Wing, but we’d been given the all-clear to begin our clean-up efforts. A crew led by Little Odin was securing plastic sheeting over the ugly hole blasted in the wall. Another crew had been tasked with clearing the debris from the explosion. They worked diligently at their tasks.

The flickering image of W.B.‘s endless circling brought to my mind the opening lines of one of my favorite poems, “The Second Coming,” by W.B. Yeats, for whom Dr. Xivray’s falcon is named. I found myself muttering those familiar words under my breath:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world;

In the wake of Dr. Xivray’s abduction, it did feel like anarchy had been loosed upon us (the Xivray Institute, anyway, if not the world). The poem’s apocalyptic imagery was a perfect match for how I was feeling at that moment (how all of us were feeling, really), as if the end of the world had come to the Xivray Institute. For all we knew, it had.

The reporters who had responded to the catastrophe were all gone too, except, of course, for Naomi Rogers, who had never stopped skulking around the Institute since the incident at the Correspondents’ Dinner. She spent most of her days hanging out with the kitchen staff, gathering whatever information she could — which was a lot, as it turned out.

“Who are you talking to?” said David to Twitch, whose thigh-tapping was ceaseless.

“Don’t you know?” said Twitch, a weary reference to the fact that David didn’t really have to ask.

“Yeah,” said David. “I just want to hear you say out loud that you’re talking to a person named Goo Baby.”

“Goo Baby?” I said.

“It’s just a screen name,” said Twitch.

“Which means he chose it,” said David.

“Who is he?” I said.

“He installed our security,” said Twitch. “I’m trying to see if he can salvage anything from the damaged cams.”

“Never mind him,” said David. “Who’s the best hacker you know?”

“Dr. Xivray,” said Twitch, without hesitation.

“Besides her,” said David.

“Me,” said Twitch.

“Exactly,” said David. “The two of you are a match made in nerd heaven.”

Twitch glowered, David’s comment serving as a cruel reminder of Twitch’s relationship with the original Dr. Xivray (R.I.P.).

“Don’t you get it?” said David. Twitch and I looked at him expectantly. He rolled his eyes. “No, I perceive that you don’t.”

“Spit it out,” snapped Twitch. “We’re not the mind readers around here.”

“Nobody knows about the Doc, right? Her secret. Nobody but us.”

“Right,” said Twitch.

“Which means the people who took her don’t know,” said David.

Twitch said, “Couldn’t our mystery man—”

“Or woman,” said David.

“Whatever,” said Twitch. “How do you know any of us haven’t been read? Our minds, I mean. Without our knowledge.”

“No fingerprints,” said David. “I’d know ‘em anywhere. We’re all clean. And that’s how we’re gonna get her back. But we gotta be fast.”

“Why don’t you just spill it?” said Twitch.

“What will the Doc do,” said David, “if one of her captors has a cellphone?”

Twitch’s jaw dropped. “Oh shit,” he said, and began tapping his thigh faster than I’d ever seen him tap it before.

“Oh my God,” I said. “She can contact us.”

“Exactly,” said David.

“I’ve got her,” said Twitch.

“Already?” I said.

“Yup,” said Twitch. She just posted on a private bulletin board. Coded message, of course, but it’s a simple substitution. Stand by.” Twitch tapped rapidly against his leg, then stood up. “Let’s go,” he said, striding out the door at a near-run. Without hesitation, David followed.

“Wait,” I said, hurrying after them, trying to catch up. “Where are we going?”

Chapter 14

“Try thinking less hard”

“It’s a goddamned fortress,” said Twitch.

“Shut up,” said David.

“What do we do now?” I said.

“Shut up,” said David. His eyes were closed, and he was frowning furiously.

We were sitting in Twitch’s car, ninety miles from the Xivray Institute, a distance Twitch had driven in less than an hour, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly they left permanent imprints. David had ridden in the front passenger seat, and I had sat in the back, worried and fretful. (Despite my oft-stated desire for adventure, I felt ill-equipped to contribute to this rescue mission.)

We had briefly debated alerting Little Odin to Dr. Xivray’s location and asking him to form a strike team, but explaining to him how she had contacted Twitch might have proven complicated, not to mention compromising, and it wasn’t clear to us that a Little Odin-led tactical strike was the best approach. Little Odin is extremely able, but he tends to offer the same approach to any situation. “When all you have is a hammer,” he once remarked, in a rare moment of self-reflection, “every problem looks like a skull.”

After some extremely rushed discussion, we had decided to come alone, just the three of us, hurtling towards this destination in a kind of deranged frenzy. None of us had said a kind word to another in the past 45 minutes, all of our nerves like exposed electrical wires, sparking with fear and frustration. My throat felt like sandpaper, and I badly wished I had some water. As fraught with peril as the situation was, all I could think about was how thirsty I was.

“You’re thirsty, I get it!” shouted David. “Would you please shut up?”

“For crying out loud, David,” said Twitch. “Velvet hasn’t said a word.”

“You know she doesn’t have to,” said David, clutching the sides of his head. “Both of you, please: Just… try thinking less hard.” He sounded weak, and I briefly felt sympathy for him, for the toll his gift took on him.

Twitch had driven us to an abandoned mill, an enormous cathedral of brick and stone perched on the edge of a river that marked the boundary between two quiet towns near the state line. Dr. Xivray had provided the exact address in her brief coded message to Twitch, and Twitch had found it using the GPS software he has built into his wearable computer accoutrements, which projects a navigation overlay onto his contact lenses, so he sees a 3D map augmenting his view of the road, lighting up the correct route. (Twitch never gets lost.)

The building’s many windows were boarded up against the elements, and its walls were festooned with graffiti left over the years by scores of disaffected teenagers. (“WHERE’S THE PEACE?” read one graffito. Where indeed, I wondered.) All was silent except for the ever-present murmur of the river. I looked at my hands and saw that they were trembling.

During our drive, I had researched our destination on my Q-phone while Twitch and David had bickered incessantly in the front seat. For most of the first half of the twentieth century, the mill had been a thriving factory building, the primary employer of two towns’ citizens (and, as an aside, a major polluter of the adjacent river). When the factory closed in favor of cheaper overseas labor, the building stood abandoned for a decade until the space was reimagined as an upscale shopping mall. As such it had thrived for nearly twenty more years before it too had succumbed to the cruel vagaries of the American economy. Now, the building once again stood empty — or seemingly empty — a reminder of business and industry long gone. (The river, however, was reportedly much cleaner, and the fish, once depleted, were making a comeback.)

Fading giant stenciled letters at the top of the building, partially painted over by other fading letters and logos, hinted at the space’s sad history. It was unclear who currently owned the property. My research on my Q-phone had shown the title passing through the hands of many conglomerates as part of heavily bundled trades, with no clear end point in the chain of custody. A dead end, for now.

There are buildings like this one all over the country, the towns they once anchored struggling to find new industries and new identities for themselves. Some never do. I shook my head, trying to rid it of these distracting ruminations.

Twitch had not received another communication from Dr. Xivray, but her first and only message to him indicated she was being held here. There was no movement or any other suggestion of occupancy, but tire tracks criss-crossing the dirt patch in front of the padlocked mill entrance indicated activity on the premises. There had been heavy rains in the area the previous evening, so the tire tracks were new. Someone had been here. Recently.

Twitch tapped his thigh and consulted a readout viewable only to him via his customized contact lenses. “It’s like the storage facility we broke Fernando out of all over again,” he said. “It looks abandoned, but there’s enough high-tech gear in this place to protect the Pentagon. It doesn’t look government issue, though. This is even more sophisticated.”

“Why do you think we haven’t heard the Doc again?” I asked him.

“There’s some sort of signal jammer in the building. I can’t hack into it remotely, but if we can get inside, I can probably disable it.”

“Do you think the Doc’s still here?” I asked.

“Can you both shut up?” David suggested, squeezing his eyes shut.

“What’s your problem?” said Twitch.

“I’m trying to see if…” he trailed off, frowning.

What is it?” said Twitch. “What’s wrong?”

“Shut up,” said David “Something’s happening. Wait. Wait…” His eyes popped open. “Start the car!” he shouted.

“What? Why?” said a startled Twitch, but he did as David had demanded. As the engine revved to life, every window in the car shattered simultaneously. I screamed, and felt a sharp sting on my neck: broken glass. Vaguely, I heard shouting, but at the same time, my head was being slammed sideways against the side of the door by something small and solid and incredibly fast.

And then there was nothing but darkness.

Chapter 15

“Where are your clothes, Twitch?”

Pain.

As I came into consciousness, the only sensation I was aware of was pain. My head felt as if someone had placed it firmly in a vice, tightening that vice almost (but not quite) to the point of crushing my skull. Experimentally, I tried opening my eyes. There was very little light in the room, but enough to shoot screaming bolts of pain into my brain, convincing me that opening my eyes had been a terrible idea. I squeezed them shut again, but the pain did not dissipate. I moaned aloud.

“Velvet, is that you?” It was Twitch’s voice.

Against my better judgment, I opened my eyes again. The pain that followed was bad, but not as exponentially bad as the first time I had opened them. We were apparently inside the mill, in an old machine room, the machines long removed. I was lying on a cold cement floor, my back pressed up against a rough brick wall. Boards blocked the windows, but a few narrow gaps allowed a little light in. My eyes still objected to even that small amount of light, but by it, I could see Twitch, lying on his back, arm draped over his eyes. He was wearing only underwear.

“Where are your clothes, Twitch?” I said.

“They took them,” he said. “They took everything. They even took my contact lenses.”

“Where’s David?”

Listlessly, Twitch lifted the arm not covering his eyes and pointed to the far corner of the room. I glanced in the direction Twitch was pointing and saw David lying on his side, still unconscious, his breathing labored. An ugly purple bruise had blossomed just below his right eye.

“What happened?” I said.

“It was a trap,” said Twitch. “They were waiting for us.”

“Why didn’t Dr. Xivray warn us? Wait, why didn’t David warn us?”

“All of ‘em were just out of my range,” said David, stirring into consciousness. “Not one of those bastards came within 50 yards of us.”

“Until the end,” I said.

“Well, yeah,” said David. “And one of them slipped within range at the very last second. I got just a flicker just before they hit us.”

“What did they hit us with?” I said.

“Bean bags, I think,” said Twitch. “Fired from some sort of cannon. Or several cannons, more likely. They didn’t want to kill us, just knock us out.”

“Damn, it hurts,” I said, wincing at the pain.

“Yeah,” said Twitch, his voice dead.

“Where are your clothes, Twitch?” said David.

“They took them,” said Twitch.

“Why?”

“I think they couldn’t be sure which pieces of clothing I was wearing had modifications that would allow me to hack their system. Which was everything, actually.”

“Except your underwear, thank god,” said David.

“Actually,” said Twitch, “there’s a cell phone antenna woven into the waistband of my underwear.”

“Why do you have a cell phone antenna woven into the waistband of your underwear?” I said.

“In case he ever gets abducted and stripped down to his skivvies and locked in a room, obviously,” said David.

“Pretty much,” said Twitch.  “And they also missed this.” He held up his left hand, on which he still wore his wedding ring. He took the ring off and lay it on the floor, rapidly pressing down on it twice. There was a click and a small buzzing sound and then a holographic keyboard and monitor flickered to life in the air in front of him. Rapidly, his fingers flicked over the keys floating in the air, and code began to appear on the holographic monitor.

“Okay, I’ve gotta admit: That’s pretty cool,” said David.

“I’ve got nothing,” said Twitch. “No signal. Whatever jammer they’re using is serious.”

“How about you?” I said to David. “Are you picking up anything?”

“Can’t say for sure,” said David. “They blindsided me last time. But I think they’re gone. For now, anyway. They’re definitely not in the building.”

Twitch continued to type in the air. “I can’t get a signal out,” he said, “but I can access their internal system. They’ve laid in quite a few enhancements for an abandoned factory building.”

“What do you see?” I said. “Anything on the Doc? Can you get us out of here?”

“Hold on,” said Twitch. “I’m pulling up the internal schematics. Stand by.”

David closed his eyes, conserving his strength, as Twitch’s fingers moved rapidly and silently over the holographic keys. There was a clank and a thud from the door, which then glided open with a metallic sigh.

“You don’t mess with Twitch,” said Twitch.

“Twitch shouldn’t talk about himself in the third person,” said David.

“Let’s get out of here,” I suggested, struggling to my feet.

“Wait a minute,” said David. He hadn’t moved.

“What do you mean, ‘Wait a minute?’” said Twitch. “Let’s go!”

“Goddamnit, I said wait a minute,” said David. He held his hand to his forehead and frowned.

“What is it?” I said. “Are they back?”

“Come with me,” said David. “Right now.” He leapt to his feet and bolted from the room at a run.

Twitch and I exchanged puzzled glances. Then he grabbed his ring off the floor and we followed.

“This way!” shouted David, bounding up the stairs at the end of the hall as we hastened to catch up with him. He came to a stop at the top of the stairs, in front of a metal door, modern and clearly newly installed. He tried the knob, but it was locked.

“Do your thing with the ring,” he said to Twitch. “Get this door open. Now!”

“Why?” said Twitch. “What’s behind there?”

“Just do it!” shouted David.

Twitch removed his ring and placed it on the floor again, bringing the holographic interface to life once more. A few flicks of the virtual keyboard later, the door in front of us slid open, revealing Dr. Xivray, bound and gagged on the floor in front of us.

“Niskayuna!” shouted Twitch, momentarily forgetting to use her more formal appellation. He ran forward to assist her.

I looked at David. “How did you…” I began, but was too perplexed to complete the question.

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Dr. Xivray, whose gag Twitch had removed before moving on to the plastic zip ties binding her hands and feet. “David has adapted to my artificial matrix. He’s learning to read my mind.”

Chapter 16

“Yes, that’s an extraordinary development”

“Conclusions?” said Dr. Xivray.

We were in Twitch’s car, Twitch driving, Dr. Xivray in the passenger seat, David and I crammed into a back seat far too small for the two of us. David’s shoulders were hunched in the cramped space, and his head, though tucked against his chest, still pressed against the roof of the car. Wind whipped through the shattered windows, making it necessary for us to shout to be heard. (We had considered having Twitch’s car repaired before returning to the Institute, or calling Splendid Audrey for a ride, but it was ultimately decided that we needed to get back to the Institute as soon as possible, uncomfortable car ride notwithstanding. I worried that police might stop us, but so far, we’d been lucky.)

At least it was a warm day. We could tell ourselves that this was sort of like driving in a convertible with the top down.

Sort of.

“Well, they probably know we have a psychic of our own,” said Twitch.

“I agree, Twitch,” said Dr. Xivray. “That has seemed quite likely, even before today. But the fact that the mercenaries who attacked you deliberately stayed out of David’s range seems to confirm that the person or persons planning the assault were aware of his abilities.”

“And his limitations,” Twitch added.

David ignored the implied dig. “It also seems like they know what you are,” he said.

Dr. Xivray turned her head towards the back seat, far enough for us to see her arch an eyebrow. “And what am I, David?”

“Uh, you know what I mean,” said David, visibly flustered. “They know about that artificial noodle you’ve got locked away in that skull of yours. It seems like they knew you’d be able to contact us, and they went ahead and let you. Then they turned on that jammer thingy so you couldn’t contact us again. The whole thing was a setup. They were waiting for us.”

“Then why leave us alone in the factory?” said Twitch. “Why let us escape?”
“I don’t think they let us escape,” I said. “I think they thought we were secured. I think they just missed your ring. They thought of everything but your wedding ring. Without your wedding ring, we’d still be stuck in there.”

I saw Twitch’s shoulders tense at my calling attention to his ring, and specifically referring to it as a wedding ring. Twice. But Dr. Xivray did not remark upon my comment. As far as I knew, she had never asked Twitch about his ring, perhaps intuitively understanding how personal it was to him.

“And they sure as hell didn’t count on me linking up with the Doc here,” said David.

“Yes, that’s an extraordinary development,” said Dr. Xivray.

Twitch said nothing.

For the first few minutes of the drive, Dr. Xivray and David had performed a few impromptu and rudimentary experiments in an attempt to replicate David’s earlier psychic read of the Doc, but so far, he had been unable to repeat the feat. “Perhaps the urgency of the situation was a factor,” Dr. Xivray had hypothesized. “Perhaps adrenaline acts as a boosting agent of some sort.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said David, uncomfortable again. All of us, except perhaps for Dr. Xivray herself, were aware of how unhappy Twitch was with this latest development. He was used to being the only one wired directly into Dr. Xivray’s digital consciousness, via his earbud and various other electronic accoutrements; but now here came David, who didn’t need any of Twitch’s fancy gizmos to accomplish the same thing.

“When you were captured, why didn’t you contact us directly?” I asked. “Why the message board?”

“Abundance of caution, Velvet” said Dr. Xivray. “We have to assume that all communication into and out of the Institute is being monitored. We’ll have to be especially careful going forward. Our enemy has been ahead of us every step of the way.”

I glanced out the window, mulling Dr. Xivray’s pronouncement. We were passing an onion farm. On the property was an enormous tan barn with its roof and walls decorated in blue dots stitched together like old sailor tattoos to form a giant sea-serpent, its tail wrapping several times around the structure. I wondered briefly about the farmer who owned this landlocked property, and whether a secret love of the sea had prompted this decoration. People’s individual passions never failed to surprise me. I mulled this for a moment, but soon we were past the barn and those thoughts faded from my mind.

Dr. Xivray was still talking. “Up until now,” she said, “our only advantage has been our enemy’s ignorance of our abilities — David’s and mine. That advantage has been lost, unfortunately, and we’re no closer to knowing our enemy’s identity.”

David coughed. “You know what? I don’t think that… That is to say, um, that’s not, uh… that’s actually not entirely true.”

Dr. Xivray turned and looked at him expectantly. “David?” she said.

“This is just coming into focus for me now,” said David, shaking his head. “Those goons that bean-bagged us, they were out of range. But in the last split second before they attacked, I caught wind of one of them.”

“Yeah, you warned us,” I said.

“Too late to do anything about it, though,” said Twitch.

“There’s something else,” said David. “I’ve been turning it over in my mind and I just realized: The cutout, the one who hired those guys. I got his name.”

“That’s great!” I said.

“He won’t be the one we’re after,” said David. “He’ll just be a middleman.”

“We’re crossing a very wide river, David,” said Dr. Xivray. “We’re looking for stones to step on as we make our way across. This man will be the next stone in our journey.”

“What’s his name?” said Twitch.

“Randall Breslin,” said David.

“How do you want to go at him?” said David to Dr. Xivray, echoing something she had once said to him. “Hard or soft?”

“Hard,” said Dr. Xivray.

Chapter 17

“It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic”

While Dr. Xivray is a believer in the rule of law in general and the United States Constitution in particular, she does allow a certain amount of flexibility in service of a greater good.  Take her hacking, for example.  She would never use her hacking skills for personal gain or to harm others, but some of what she does online technically falls outside legal parameters.  On the other hand, Dr. Xivray can transport her very consciousness over the internet, and there really aren’t any laws that cover that.  Still, for the most part, she does not condone extra-judicial activities perpetrated by Xivray Institute staff. She even insists that we all dutifully pay our parking tickets and moving violations (much to Splendid Audrey’s chagrin). But after some fairly intense debate between Dr. Xivray and David regarding the stakes involved in this particular case (which were very high indeed), it was agreed that Randall Breslin would be aggressively approached by Xivray Institute personnel (namely, Little Odin and his second, Sergeant Bam Bam) and brought back to the Xivray Institute for questioning — unharmed, of course, but against his will if necessary. No one had any doubt that Little Odin and Sergeant Bam Bam could accomplish this, least of all Little Odin himself.

Randall Breslin was the editor of a monthly mercenary magazine called Never Surrender, which featured shoddily copy-edited articles about warfare, counter-terrorism, and weapons of all sorts, and which was notorious for its shady classified ads seeking soldiers of fortune (and soldier of fortune wannabes) to participate in presumably less-than-legal missions involving firearms, treachery, and brute force. Breslin had been sued and brought to trial many times over the years for allegedly condoning and facilitating a whole host of criminal activities, but he had always won on First Amendment grounds. He was something of a celebrity among anti-government militia members and conspiracy curators, and he regularly spoke at events hosted by the country’s radical fringes. He owned a large collection of Humvees. Of course.

Breslin also owned and operated a private security concern called Theta Force, which advertised itself as “an elite fighting unit capable of offering protection from (and solutions to) the thorniest of threats, at home and abroad.” Even after extensive research, it was unclear from public records just how many soldiers Theta Force employed, or what (if any) missions it had successfully carried out, but in nearly every issue of Never Surrender, Breslin boasted, if only obliquely, of Theta Force’s latest exploits. (“Another successful endeavor in South America,” read one such dispatch. “I’d tell you more if the entire incident hadn’t been completely classified by the Secret Service. But here’s the short version: We kicked ass!”) The company’s slogan, emblazoned in bright red letters across all of its magazine ads:  “Nobody Messes With Us!”

Time it took Little Odin and Sergeant Bam Bam to fully subdue Randall Breslin, once they had arrived at his property: 48 seconds.

“First of all,” Little Odin later relayed over a celebratory glass of bourbon in the Xivray Institute pantry, “his home alarm system password was 1111.” He rolled his eyes. “That’s the factory setting, man. I mean, what can you even say to that?”

Sergeant Bam Bam gestured wildly, nearly spilling his own bourbon. “Second,” he said, “his hand-to-hand combat and firearms skills were Keystone Cops-level inept, seriously. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

Little Odin puffed on his cigar. “Sergeant Bam Bam was able to disarm him pretty much immediately,” he said, “and about five seconds after that, he dropped to the floor and curled up in a ball.” He barked a short laugh. “We almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost.”

As previously noted, the actions about which Little Odin and Sergeant Bam Bam were boasting were not strictly legal, but Breslin later declined to press charges (no doubt fearing the publicity his humiliating capture would generate), and even if he hadn’t, the blanket presidential pardons that were issued to everyone involved in this affair would have covered the small case of kidnapping described above.

Little Odin and Sergeant Bam Bam delivered a bound and gagged Randall Breslin to Dr. Xivray a scant 24 hours after our escape from the abandoned factory. He was deposited into the very room in which David had spent his first night at the Institute, the only difference being that for Randall Breslin, we locked his door from the outside. As we had a few weeks earlier when Dr. Xivray had first interviewed David, Twitch and I sat in the observation room to watch the camera feed. This time, however, David crowded into the room with us.

“How dare you?” spat Randall Breslin when Dr. Xivray entered the guest room. “Do you know who I am?”

In the observation room, David smacked his forehead with his palm. “Do we know who you are? No, we just abducted you at random, you dumbass, dimwitted dipshit.”

“Shh,” Twitch suggested. David opened his mouth to respond, but then apparently decided to say nothing, which was probably just as well.

Back in the guest room, Dr. Xivray was ignoring Randall Breslin’s question, because, as David had observed so alliteratively, it was patently foolish on its face.

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” Breslin tried next.

“Perhaps,” said Dr. Xivray. “But as they say, we’re all in this together. We kidnapped you, but first, you kidnapped me and my colleagues — or rather, you commissioned those crimes, which we can prove, so don’t bother to deny it. We’ll produce the evidence of your guilt if necessary. But that’s small beer compared to the larger crime of which you’re equally guilty. You’ve been party to treason, Mr. Breslin. Did you know that? Treason, the maximum penalty for which is death. So if you’d like to involve the authorities right now, I’ll be happy to bring you a phone. But if not, let’s talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” said Randall Breslin.

“Well then, I’ll talk and you’ll listen,” said Dr. Xivray.

In the observation room, Twitch and I chuckled, and after picking up our thoughts, David chuckled too. This was not the first Dr. Xivray interrogation Twitch and I had witnessed, and we’d never seen her leave an interrogation without the information she was seeking. Randall Breslin would talk. Of that we had no doubt. The only question was, how long would it take?

Fifteen minutes, as it turns out.

Chapter 18

“It’s time to make the deal”

Unsurprisingly, Randall Breslin did not have a lot of useful information — which is not to say that he didn’t talk. Of course he talked. The subjects of Dr. Xivray’s interrogations almost always talk. (I once saw Dr. Xivray reduce to tears, after a mere fifteen minutes of questioning, the most powerful underworld kingpin in the state, a man responsible for hundreds of murders carried out on his behalf. His subsequent confession to Dr. Xivray, a video feed of which Twitch piped directly into a federal prosecutor’s office, led to dozens of convictions, effectively crippling the region’s crime syndicate, and Dr. Xivray received the FBI Medal for Meritorious Achievement for her role in the case.) But what Breslin revealed under Dr. Xivray’s questioning was of little value to us, as Dr. Xivray had already correctly deduced most of what he had to confess.

Truth be told, an interrogation wasn’t even really necessary, given that the Xivray Institute had a resident psychic on hand. And in fact, David had done a quick read of Breslin when he’d been brought in. “No fingerprints,” David told us, which indicated that Breslin had had no direct contact with our enemy. But Dr. Xivray felt that an interrogation of Breslin would give her a psychological advantage over him. Once she “broke” him, he’d be more compliant, more willing to cooperate with us. And according to Dr. Xivray, Breslin would have an important role to play in what Dr. Xivray planned to do next.

So, Dr. Xivray questioned him, and Twitch, David, and I watched.

Breslin had been contacted over the internet, anonymously, and all communications with his mysterious employer had been conducted online. A large sum of money had been deposited into an offshore bank account in Breslin’s name, and an additional sum had been promised to him after the successful delivery of Dr. Xivray and David Thorne. (Twitch and I were apparently extraneous, our abduction neither required nor discouraged.) The men who’d actually done the abducting were long gone, goons for hire who’d been paid a flat fee by Randall Breslin to perform their task, leaving only Breslin to collect the bonus upon delivery. The method of our abduction and their positioning at the factory had been dictated by Breslin’s benefactor, who’d made it clear that they were not to come within 50 yards of us until we were subdued. Breslin hadn’t bothered to ask why, but he was happy to comply with this request.

The mill building was owned and had been retrofitted by a shadowy foreign conglomerate that Breslin’s Theta Force outfit had a stake in, and it was now used as an occasional safe house or drop site as part of various illegal and quasi-legal operations. Breslin was unsure what was to become of his captives, but he had reported the success of his abductions to his mysterious benefactor.

A visibly broken Breslin relayed all of these details in a flat monotone, as Dr. Xivray looked on, impassively, interjecting the occasional clarifying question. In the observation room, David became angrier and angrier, occasionally shouting a profane remark at the screen as Breslin laid out the scheme in which he had been involved. Twitch eventually grew tired of shushing him and donned noise-canceling headphones so he could focus solely on the audio being piped in from the guest room, as distasteful as that audio was.

If Dr. Xivray could be said to be pleased about anything Breslin was telling her, it was that Breslin himself hadn’t known of our escape before being abducted by Little Odin and his team.. And if Randall Breslin didn’t know, it stood to reason that our unknown enemy also didn’t know. According to Breslin, his anonymous employer wouldn’t even be told our location until the deal was finalized.

“How were you supposed to make the delivery?” Dr. Xivray asked him. “How exactly do your communications work?”

“I leave a draft of an e-mail on an online e-mail account,” said Breslin. “He also has the username and password, so he can sign in and read my draft. Nothing ever actually gets sent, so the e-mail is never monitored or flagged. Once he’s read my message, he deletes it, which is a signal to me that he’s read it. When he has a message for me, we do the same thing in reverse.”

“He?” said Dr. Xivray.

“Or she, I guess. I really don’t know,” said Randall Breslin.

“What are you supposed to do next?” said Dr. Xivray.

“All I have to do is provide him with the location of where he can scoop up you and your buddies.”

“Why haven’t you done that yet?” said Dr. Xivray. “You had us two days ago.”

“Price,” said Randall Breslin with an avaricious smile. “We’re still negotiating.”

Dr. Xivray closed her eyes, concentrating intently. Five seconds later, she opened them and said, “It’s time to make the deal.” She glanced upward. “Twitch, would you please bring me a working laptop? And David, could you please accompany Twitch?”

Randall Breslin looked around, apparently aware for the first time that he was being monitored.

Twitch took off his headphones and stood up, grabbing a laptop off his work table. “Let’s go,” he said, and left the room at a brisk trot, not waiting for David, who muttered something unintelligible under his breath before leaving as well. I stayed in the observation room, studying the monitor, on which I could see Dr. Xivray standing over Breslin, who was trying (and failing) to look unconcerned. A few minutes later, David and Twitch entered the guest room. I sat up and studied the monitor intently.

“You rang?” said David.

“Twitch, please give Mr. Breslin the laptop,” said Dr. Xivray. “He’s going to contact his mysterious benefactor to arrange for the delivery of his supposed captives.”

“That would be us,” said David.

“Indeed,” said Dr. Xivray. “David, please make sure he doesn’t attempt to relay a coded warning.”

“How would he know?” sneered Randall Breslin, revealing a truly stunning level of ignorance of everything in which he was involved.

David snorted and Dr. Xivray ignored the question. “Pay close attention,” she said, and proceeded to give Breslin detailed instructions of what to include in his message.

Randall Breslin typed.

Chapter 19

“Join me, won’t you?”

We didn’t have much time. Under careful instruction from Dr. Xivray, Randall Breslin had arranged for his benefactor (or, more likely, agents thereof) to retrieve his prize the following day at noon, with the exact location to be revealed only at the last possible moment. (Breslin had disclosed the general region, so our enemy’s couriers would be ready when the final reveal arrived.) It was unclear to me why our enemy didn’t simply use his (or her) psychic powers on Breslin to divine the location and avoid the second payoff, but Dr. Xivray suggested that perhaps he (or she) was simply demonstrating an abundance of caution, or perhaps this person’s job or position would make it difficult or impossible to get close enough to Breslin to get the necessary psychic read, at least not without attracting unwanted attention.

In any case, we now had a very tight self-imposed deadline, but Dr. Xivray felt that to delay any longer would allow whatever advantage we had to slip away. We had the night to come up with a viable plan.

I use the word “we” above, but the truth is I was not involved in the planning. Dr. Xivray and Little Odin sequestered themselves in Little Odin’s “war room” — a small office off of the Institute’s regulation-sized gymnasium, a gymnasium in which (in his off hours) Little Odin endlessly practices his free throw. (He’s gotten staggeringly consistent at the foul line, though everyone who participates in the Xivray Institute’s intramural league knows better than to foul him.)

Dr. Xivray and Little Odin talked and planned and argued and strategized late into the night, while everyone else in the Institute occupied themselves as best they could. For example:

Sergeant Bam Bam (a soldier but not a planner), took in a long, contemplative steam in the Xivray Institute sauna, listening to Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue pumped in on the speakers at full volume.

In the garage, Splendid Audrey Tanaka continued her work on the construction of a specialized car of her own design, outfitted with twin engines, one of them a jet engine. This car would be able travel normally on highways and surface streets, but given enough wide open space, it would also be able to break the sound barrier. The list of Xivray Institute volunteers who wanted to take the first test drive when the car was finished was quite long.

Long Hat, still reeling from being expelled from his own band, practiced piano in the rec room, occasionally jotting down potential lyrics for his in-progress one-man rock opera, “Just Before the War With the Robots,” a show that, once completed, would debut at The Majestic, the very theater in which I had first encountered David, or Joe Cerebellum, as he had then been known.

Vegas Patel got a hot game of poker going with some of the newer, more gullible staff members, and within 45 minutes, he had built up a healthy stake. Xivray Institute veterans know through painful experience to stay away from Vegas Patel when he’s holding playing cards, which have a tendency to turn to money in his hands. Upon reflection, it occurs to me that no one with any sense would willingly play cards for money with someone whose nickname is “Vegas.”

Nice Guy Miranda sat in her lab, lights off, singing show tunes to her mealworms, as she believes that singing to the creatures in a darkened room has a positive effect on them. Mealworms do not have ears, and therefore cannot hear sounds, but Nice Guy has conclusively demonstrated that prolonged exposure to the vibrations generated by her singing — particularly Stephen Sondheim songs, for whatever reason, and especially in the dark — correlates with higher productivity in the worms.

Twitch co-wrote computer code remotely with a colleague from Hong Kong, a simple yet clever phone app that would, later that year, net them both a great deal of money. There’s a staggeringly good chance that you have this app on your phone right now, and if you do, you have in your own small way contributed to the Xivray Institute’s fortunes, for that’s where Twitch donates all of the profits from his inventions.

Twitch’s work was briefly interrupted by David, who had been summoned by Dr. Xivray and was on his way to Little Odin’s war room. “Hey, how’s it going?” said David, tapping lightly on Twitch’s open door.

“You ought to know,” said Twitch, without looking up from his work.

“Yeah, well, I’m… uh… I’m just on my way to see the Doc,” said David.

“Uh huh,” said Twitch.

“So look,” said David, “I don’t know if you even want to know this, but I have some information that might interest you.”

Twitch looked up at David at last. “What are you talking about?” he said.

“When I read the Doc that one time, I got a complete snapshot of her brain. A whole universe of thoughts I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.”

“Uh huh,” said Twitch.

“Well, anyway, I picked up a little tidbit that concerns you.”

Twitch reddened and said nothing.

“Look,” said David. “I know you don’t want Dr. Xivray to know anything about what happened between the two of you. I mean, between you and original-flavor Doc.”

Twitch said nothing.

“Yeah, well, uh, that’s not so much how it is.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” said Twitch, visibly angry.

“Before she died,” said David, “Dr. Xivray left a message for herself, online on an old message board she knew you wouldn’t stumble across.”

Twitch said nothing.

“It explained everything. How the two of you fell for each other, I mean. So the Doc — the new Doc, I mean — she’s always known. From the first week she was booted up, she’s known all about it.”

“She wasn’t booted up,” said Twitch, so quietly only a mind-reader would have been able to hear him.

“Fine,” said David. “I just thought you might want to know.”

Twitch said nothing.

“But I know now that was wrong,” said David.

Twitch said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” said David, meaning it.

Twitch said nothing and returned to his work, his eyes stinging. After a moment, David continued on his way to meet with Dr. Xivray and Little Odin.

As for myself, as this was happening, I was headed to the kitchen for a late-night snack.

The kitchen staff had all turned in for the night, but the walk-in refrigerator was well stocked with leftovers. I made my way through the chilly space, which was bathed in an eerie, dim blue light, loading up my plate with various goodies, including a small portion of an amazing baked Alaska J.D. had constructed earlier that evening. Plate of food in hand, I walked towards the long pantry table where the service staff take their meals between shifts. A lamp at the end of the table was lit, and I saw that someone was already sitting there, their face obscured by shadow. I thought that perhaps it was someone who, like me, had wanted a late-night snack. I walked forward but stopped short when I saw who was sitting there.

It was Naomi Rogers, my former colleague at the paper. She wore a white oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, a small ink stain at the bottom of the breast pocket. Her bright blue hair was cropped short and topped by an old-fashioned fedora, cocked to one side. A checked blazer hung from the chair she was sitting on. Aside from her gender and her dyed hair, she was the very caricature of a reporter in a ’40s screwball comedy. All she needed was a cigar and a manual typewriter to complete the picture.

All was quiet, save for the low hum of the walk-in refrigerator and the faint sounds floating through a heating vent of Nice Guy Miranda singing “Send in the Clowns” to her worms.

Naomi was not in the kitchen for a late-night snack. She had no food in front of her at all. Just a notebook and a pen, placed directly in the center of the lamplight, like some sort of avant garde art installation.

“Hello, Vivian,” she said, smiling the way a cobra might smile at a mouse. “Join me, won’t you?”

Chapter 20

“It makes me think of Deputy Dawg”

Naomi and I had been colleagues at the paper, but not friends — which is not to imply that we didn’t like each other, just that we worked in different departments. Naomi was an investigative journalist, regularly breaking explosive stories. Her ten-part series on corruption in the city’s sanitation department led to several resignations and the arrest of our mayor. I on the other hand was mainly assigned inconsequential puff pieces. Pie contests. Dog groomers. Local celebrity scientists. Our paths didn’t cross all that much.

“How are you, Naomi?” I ventured, cautiously.

“Have a seat, Vivian,” Naomi said. With her left foot, she pushed the chair across from her towards me. It wobbled as it moved, scraping noisily across the linoleum.

“What’s this about?” I said.

“Just a couple of questions,” said Naomi. “Shouldn’t take long.” She picked up the pen in front of her and looked up at me, her face as guileless as she could manage.

“Questions about what?” I said, making no move towards the proffered chair.

“Please, sit,” said Naomi. “Having you loom over me like that is making me nervous.”

“I doubt very much you ever get nervous,” I said. “And if you ever do, I sincerely doubt I’d be the cause.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Naomi. “Please sit. Please?”

“What’s this about, Naomi?” I said, finally sitting down.

“I just want to ask you something,” said Naomi.

“Ask me what?” I said, suddenly very nervous myself.

“When did Dr. Xivray die?” said Naomi.

I struggled to keep my face expressionless. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Velvet,” said Naomi, using my Institute nickname for the first time. “Assume I’m not an idiot. Let’s start there, okay?”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot, Naomi,” I said.

“Well, that’s good,” said Naomi, “because I’m not. I’ll tell you what I know, and I’ll tell you what I think. You don’t have to say anything during this part, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“I know David Thorne, who recently joined the Institute, has some psychic abilities.”

“Okay,” I said. That was pretty much an open secret at the Institute, so it didn’t concern me too much that Naomi had gotten wind of it.

“I know that Dr. Xivray recruited him in a secret mission involving the president.” Again, not a huge leap, considering the events of the Correspondents’ Dinner.

“Okay,” I said.

“When you say, ‘Okay,’ are you acknowledging the truth of what I’m saying, or is it just a conversational placeholder?”

“The second one,” I said.

“Can I quote you on that?” said Naomi.

“No,” I said.

“That was a joke, Velvet.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Now, here’s what I think,” said Naomi. “I think Dr. Xivray — the real Dr. Xivray — died sometime in the past seven years.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “I saw her half an hour ago.”

“I doubt it,” said Naomi.

“Sure looked like her,” I said.

“I’m sure it did,” said Naomi.

I attempted a joke: “What are you saying, Naomi? That Dr. Xivray is a clone?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” said Naomi. “I’m saying that I think she’s a robot.”

“Riiight,” I said.

“So, I’m right?” said Naomi. “Can I quote you on that?”

“Come on, Naomi. That’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.”

“Is it? Robot’s the wrong word. I think she’s human, but with an artificial brain.” She smiled thinly. “Care to comment?”

“That’s quite a theory,” I said.

“It’s more than a theory, Velvet,” said Naomi, “and I think you know it.”

“Okay,” I said.

“What can you tell me about Project Mnemosyne?” said Naomi.

“Never heard of it,” I said.

“Well, I believe you have heard of it,” said Naomi.

“That’s your privilege,” I said, “but I wouldn’t print that if I were you.”

“Why not?” said Naomi.

“First of all, what proof do you have?” I said,  not so much to argue with her as literally to find out what proof she had.

“I have enough to interest my editor,” said Naomi.

“The Muskrat?” I said.

She grinned. “That always makes me feel like I’m in The Wind in the Willows, working for Mr. Muskrat.”

“It makes me think of Deputy Dawg,” I said.

“I’m just looking for a source to confirm.”

“Okay,” I said. “I can confirm that there’s a muskrat character in Deputy Dawg.”

“We wouldn’t have to use your name,” said Naomi. “You could be an anonymous source inside the Institute.”

“I could also be the Xivray Institute official who declined to comment. How about that?”

“You’re loyal,” said Naomi. “I admire that about you. I really do. But I also notice that you haven’t denied anything I’ve said.”

“Notice what you like,” I said. “I’m not confirming any of that.”

Naomi smiled. “See, you think you’re not telling me anything, but you’re telling me everything.”

“So, now you’re psychic?” I said.

“No. I just know how to read a good poker face — which you do not have.”

“Too bad you can’t cite a bad poker face in your article,” I said.

“Never mind the article,” said Naomi. “This is a book.”

“Now you’re getting into my territory,” I said.

“Come on,” said Naomi. “There’s plenty of story here for us to share. Besides, you’re not writing about it.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Aha!” said Naomi, smiling triumphantly. “So you admit that it’s something that you could be writing about, or may write about someday.”

“I admit nothing,” I said.

“So, that’s how it’s going to be?” said Naomi.

“Apparently,” I said.

“Well, then,” said Naomi, “I guess you’ll just have to buy me dinner.”

I blinked at the unexpected topic shift. “Why would I buy you dinner?”

“To try to pump me for information. Find out what I know. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dr. Xivray herself suggested it to you.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” I said.

“But you can’t bring David Thorne along. That would be cheating.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” said Naomi.

I got up to leave, no longer very hungry. My plate of food sat untouched on the table.

“But don’t wait too long,” said Naomi. “You never know when I might find another source.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” I said, and sauntered out of the kitchen as casually as I could manage. As soon as I was out of Naomi’s line of sight, I sprinted towards Little Odin’s war room.

Chapter 21

“I thought you’d never ask”

I pounded on the door of Little Odin’s office, knowing full well that Dr. Xivray would be deeply immersed in planning for the next morning’s campaign, but also knowing that this couldn’t wait. Naomi’s little scoop could derail everything.

“Come in, Velvet,” said Dr. Xivray. I assumed that David had read my mind through the door and had told her who was knocking. It was still an unsettling feeling, even after weeks of being around David. I opened the door and stepped into the room, a small, cramped office jam-packed with Little Odin’s military paraphernalia and athletic equipment. Little Odin himself stood at a giant whiteboard on the far wall, scribbling notes and diagrams. He ignored me completely.

Dr. Xivray studied me for a moment and then nodded. “Little Odin, will you excuse us?” she said.

“What, are you kidding?” said Little Odin, turning towards her in puzzlement. “We still got a lot to go over.”

“Velvet will be brief, won’t you, Velvet?”

“What? Uh, yeah. Sure.”

With a disgruntled grunt, Little Odin left his office, closing the door behind him.

“How much does Ms. Rogers know?” Dr. Xivray asked.

I blinked. David would not have had time to relay the reason for my interruption to Dr. Xivray, nor would he have done so in front of Little Odin, so she was clearly relying on her Sherlock Holmesian ability to divine the truth of a situation using only the faintest of clues. It occurred to me that perhaps David hadn’t told her who was knocking after all. Perhaps Dr. Xivray had ascertained who was knocking purely through her own powers of deduction. They were equally plausible explanations. Impossible to know which one was correct. However, David did step in now, through the window of silence my hesitation had opened, relaying my urgent thoughts before I had a chance to utter them. “She knows about you,” he said. “Or at least she suspects.” He pounded Little Odin’s desk with the heel of his hand. “And she’s writing a book!”

Dr. Xivray shot a quick, stern glance at David. “We’ve talked about this, David. Please allow Velvet to speak for herself.”

David clamped his mouth shut, raised his eyebrows, and turned his palms upward towards me, yielding me the floor.

“I don’t think she has enough proof to go to print yet,” I said, “but she’s got a strong enough hunch to keep digging.” I paused, marshalling my thoughts. “I know this woman. Or more precisely, I know her reputation. She’s not likely to give up until she has what she wants. She’s like a terrier that way. She gets ahold of a stick, and she doesn’t let go.”

“What a pain in the ass,” said David, standing up suddenly. It was unclear to me what he intended to do next.

“David,” said Dr. Xivray, gesturing for him to sit back down, but keeping her voice as serene as ever, “the First Amendment protects one of America’s most cherished freedoms. I do not begrudge Ms. Rogers’ pursuit of this story. In fact, I quite admire her ingenuity and zeal.”

“Okay,” said David, taking his seat again. “So you’re fine with her telling the whole world your secret?”

“I am not,” said Dr. Xivray. “A revelation of my secret could be disastrous for me personally, as well as for the Institute. My rights as a human being, if I have any, are not currently codified by law. I’m not sure if the law as it’s now written would even consider me a human being at all. And the theological implications of my existence are still not ones the world seems ready to grapple with quite yet. Do I have a soul? I’m sure the debate over that question would be contentious, to say the least.” She shook her head. “Forgive my digression,” she said, waving her hands as if to brush away stray thoughts. “Suffice it to say, a revelation such as the one Ms. Rogers intends could have extremely negative downstream consequences, including consequences we haven’t even considered yet.”

“I’m confused,” said David. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to continue our strategy session, so we’re fully prepared for tomorrow,” said Dr. Xivray. She turned to me. “Velvet, I trust you to resolve the Naomi Rogers dilemma.”

“You do?” I said.

“I do. Can you send Little Odin back in?” She stepped to the whiteboard and began scribbling notations. She evidently considered our conversation over.

David offered me a sympathetic shrug, and I left the office. Little Odin stood at the gymnasium’s free-throw line, rolling a basketball delicately back and forth on the tips of his fingers. He ignored me as he aimed the ball and sank it with a beautifully graceful arcing shot. The basketball bounced and rolled and dribble-drabbled across the gym floor, eventually coming to a stop in the far corner by the water fountain. Little Odin glared at me as I passed him. “You done?” he said.

“The Doc’s ready for you,” I said, ignoring his annoyed huffing and puffing. I walked slowly back to the kitchen, my dread increasing with every step. Naomi sat exactly where I had left her. She had polished off the baked Alaska, I noticed.

“Well?” she said.

I sipped a bit of air, unsure what I was going to say. It turned out to be: “How about we talk about this over dinner sometime?”

Naomi stood up, smiling. “I thought you’d never ask,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, tonight?” I said. “You know it’s 1 a.m., right?”.

Naomi, walking to the exit, paused to turn towards me. “Are you coming?” she said.

Naomi took me to a nearby sushi place, a favorite of the Xivray staff, none of whom were dining there that evening, I was relieved to note, as my presence there with Naomi would have raised some eyebrows. Naomi ordered a bottle of saké, which, as it turned out, would not be the last bottle we would consume that evening. I am proud to report that as intoxicated as I became, I neither confirmed nor revealed any of Dr. Xivray’s secrets.

What I did do was go to bed with Naomi Rogers.

Chapter 22

“It wasn’t just saké, was it?”

Pain.

The hangover I woke up with the next morning felt remarkably similar to the pain I had felt after being attacked at the abandoned factory, the alcohol having achieved nearly the same effect as multiple bean bags pummeling my body after being fired from a high-powered cannon. Once again, my head felt as if someone had placed it firmly in a vice, tightening that vice almost (but not quite) to the point of crushing my skull. A little bit tighter this morning, though this time, I ruefully realized, it had been self-administered. I made a silent vow never to drink again.

I groaned, afraid to open my eyes out of fear of what light would do to them, but when I felt Naomi’s arm drape sleepily across my shoulders, my eyes flew open involuntarily. My fear about the light proved to be well founded. Twin daggers of pain plunged into my skull. I found myself in what I assumed to be Naomi’s apartment — more specifically, in her bedroom. Even more specifically, in her bed.

How I came to be there, I couldn’t recall.

“Good morning,” said Naomi, propping herself up on her elbows.

I sat up, far too quickly. My head pounded in angry protest, and I clutched it weakly. Images of the previous evening appeared to me in jagged flashes, like a broken mirror reflecting an incomplete image. At some point, we had abandoned the sushi place and moved on to a nearby bar. The memories of the bar were blurrier, more jumbled, and the connecting piece that led me to Naomi Rogers’ bed was missing completely.

“That saké will really knock it out of you, won’t it?” said Naomi. She got out of bed, looking none the worse for wear. She looked rather terrific, as a matter of fact, her close-cropped blue hair endearingly matted from sleep and a faded Emmylou Harris T-shirt hanging down almost to her knees.

“It wasn’t just saké, was it?” I croaked.

“No. By the end, it was straight shots of Jameson. I gotta tell you, anyone who drinks like that is still a journalist at heart.”

“That was not a regular thing,” I said.

She tilted her head to one side, reminding me of a curious bird. “Well, if you say so,” she said.

“How much did I drink?” I said.

“Enough to get you into my bed, but not enough for you to spill any state secrets.”

“I don’t have any state secrets,” I said.

“Xivray Institute secrets then,” Naomi allowed.

“I don’t have any of those either,” I said.

“That’s just ridiculous,” said Naomi. “Look, forget about the story for the moment, okay?”

“I thought you said it was a book.”

“Just forget it, all right? Let’s go to breakfast.”

The thought of breakfast made my stomach do a little flip. Naomi noticed. “Okay, maybe brunch. Later, after I’ve served you my sure-fire hangover cure. Alka-Seltzer in club soda. I call it the double bubble solution.” She pursed her lips. “What should we do in the meantime?”

Suddenly, I remembered the mission, the one Dr. Xivray, David, and Little Odin had been planning. Though I didn’t yet know what the mission entailed, I was terrified that my absence had derailed it. “Oh, my god!” I shouted. “What time is it?”

“It’s 8:30,” said Naomi. “Why? You have someplace to be?”

“What?” I said, panicking. “No. I mean… Yeah, there’s… No. There’s no place. Nope.” I blinked rapidly, trying to look innocent.

Naomi smiled a dazzling smile at me. “Remind me to play poker with you soon,” she said.

“I’ve got to go,” I said.

“Maybe I could drive you to wherever you’re going,” said Naomi. “You left your car at the restaurant.”

“Maybe you could call me a cab,” I said.

“You don’t trust me,” she said. She didn’t seem hurt.  I felt bad anyway, though, obviously, no, I didn’t trust her. Not completely.

“Should I?” I asked.

Naomi flashed another of her dazzling smiles at me. (She seemed to have an infinite supply.) “Probably not, at least not right now. But I hope someday you can.”

“I hope so too,” I said, and meant it. I stood up, not without effort, and moved slowly through her apartment towards her front door. Naomi followed serenely, listening to me bumble my way through an awkward farewell: “Look, Naomi, I can’t say this hasn’t been fun, spending the past few hours with you, because obviously it has been. Surprisingly fun, as a matter of fact. Maybe too much fun, maybe. I don’t know. I mean — I don’t know.” At last, I reached the front door before my babbling descended into gibberish. I turned to face her and took in a deep breath. “But I can’t help you with your story, or your book, or whatever it is. I’ll never be able to help you. And in fact, I’ll do everything in my power to stop you.”

“Okay, Velvet,” said Naomi. “At least I know where I stand.” She leaned in towards me, almost in slow motion, her face inching closer and closer to my own. My lips parted, seemingly involuntarily. I felt hyper-aware, tuned into the universe at a higher level than normal, almost as if I could perceive the individual atoms in the air between us. And still her lips hadn’t reached mine.

A loud insistent knocking on the door behind me snapped us out of the moment.

“Who is it?” said Naomi, straightening up, seemingly unruffled.

“Little Odin. Velvet has to come with me right now.”

Naomi kissed me then, quick and hard. “That’s your cue,” she said, opening the door. I stumbled into the hallway towards Little Odin, unable for the moment to form a coherent thought. Smiling, Naomi gently closed the door behind me.

Little Odin took me by the arm and hustled me towards the elevator.

“Where are we going?” I managed to say, and he punched the elevator button with a closed fist.

“The factory,” said Little Odin. “And we’re late.”

Chapter 23

“The Velvet Wasp never had to deal with this”

“What’s the plan?” I asked.

We were on the highway, speeding towards the factory, the same route I had taken with David and Twitch only two days earlier. My god, I thought to myself. Has it only been two days? My head was still throbbing, and my stomach kept doing nasty little backflips every few minutes.

With his left hand lightly grasping the steering wheel, Little Odin reached into his jacket pocket with his right hand and retrieved a small object. “Swallow this,” he said, handing it to me. I examined it. It was a small glass ball the size of a very large marble. The glass was mostly opaque, but I could make out faintly glowing lights from within the sphere.

I frowned. “I’m not sure I can do that,” I said.

“There’s a water bottle in the cup holder,” said Little Odin.

“What is it?” I said.

“It’s a tracker,” said Little Odin. “Linked to a satellite. Encrypted and cloaked so it won’t show up on any scan. But we’ll be able to track you from the Institute with the encryption key Twitch put together for us.”

“What’s the plan?” I said again.

“We’re gonna follow Breslin’s original blueprint.  His anonymous contact will scoop you guys up from the factory. They don’t know you escaped, so they won’t be expecting the trackers. They wanted you alive, so we think you’ll be safe.”

That did not sound promising. “You think?” I said.

“But no matter where they take you, anywhere in the world,” said Little Odin, ignoring my question, “we’ll be able to track you.”

I placed the tracker in my mouth. It felt enormous. “I uh knuh if I cah swerrah dis,” I said around a mouthful of tracker.

“What?” said Little Odin.

I pulled the tracker from my mouth and held it in front of my face with my thumb and forefinger, the way a child holds a fireball that’s gotten too hot. “I don’t know if I can swallow this,” I said.

“There’s a water bottle in the cup holder,” Little Odin said again.

Dubiously, I returned the tracker to my mouth and retrieved the water bottle from the cup holder. I unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow of water. The tracker reluctantly inched its way down my throat.

“That hurt,” I said.

“It will likely hurt more coming out the other end,” said Little Odin.

I grimaced. “Well, there’s something to look forward to.”

“Hopefully, this will all be over by then,” said Little Odin.

“Where’s everybody else?”

“Already at the factory, ready and waiting. Nobody knew where you were.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

“We’re holding off on having Breslin reveal the location until we’ve got you in place. Wouldn’t do for any spotters to see you arrive.”

“How long are you going to sit on Breslin?”

“For as long as it takes,” said Little Odin. “I wouldn’t trust that guy for as far as I could spit him.”

“And how long do you think this will take?” I said.

“There’s no telling,” said Little Odin, “but you should be passing the tracker in about three day’s time. Speaking of which…”

“What?” I said.

“You’re supposed to have been locked up in the factory for the past two days.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, for authenticity’s sake, you should really…”
“Really what?”

“Well, you and David and Twitch and Dr. Xivray… You’ll need to leave some pee and maybe even some poop behind on the factory floor.”

“For authenticity’s sake.”

“That’s right.”

I sighed. “The Velvet Wasp never had to deal with this,” I said.

“Who?” said Little Odin.

“Forget it.”

We arrived at the factory a little before 10 a.m. Little Odin pulled to a stop in front of the entrance. “Okay,” he said. It’s time to take your position. I’ll wait 15 minutes and then give Breslin the all-clear to reveal your location. Don’t forget to pee or poop on the floor.”

“You’re not sticking around?” I said, alarmed.

“Can’t,” said Little Odin. “Who knows who they’ll have watching this place? It’s got to look completely legit or else this guy won’t bite.”

Feeling like I might throw up at any moment, I eased myself out of Little Odin’s truck and walked towards the factory door like a condemned prisoner approaching the noose. Behind me, Little Odin sped off towards parts unknown — someplace safer than this place in any case, I thought to myself, which wasn’t very fair, I knew, since Little Odin regularly put himself in harm’s way on Dr. Xivray’s behalf. I was just feeling scared.

I shuffled to the machine room I had so recently and involuntarily occupied. When I arrived, I saw that Twitch and David were already there, in more or less the same position they had been in when I’d woken up the previous morning.

“Did Little Odin tell you about the pee and the poop?” said Twitch as soon as I walked in the door. From the smell of things in the room, David and Twitch had already fulfilled their pee obligation.

I nodded. “You had all night to plan, and this is the plan you came up with?” I said. “We step back into the lion’s jaw, but we pee and poop on the floor, so everything will be just fine?”

“Well, well, well,” said David, grinning at me. “Look who got laid last night.”

“Damn it, David,” I said.

“You guys wanted a psychic,” said David.

I squatted in the corner, as far away from David and Twitch as I could manage, and hitched up my skirt as discreetly as I could. Twitch turned his head away, but David held his gaze.

“Would you mind averting your eyes?” I said.

“I’m a psychic,” said David. “You have no secrets from me.”

“Nevertheless,” I said.

“Fine,” said David, turning his head as I released a stream of urine onto the floor.

“This is humiliating,” I said, though in truth I had very badly needed to pee for the past forty-five minutes.

“Don’t got a number two in you?” said David.

I didn’t bother replying aloud, figuring David would pick up my reply regardless. He did. “Jesus, Velvet!” he said. “The mouth on you.”

“So, what happens if the psychic is the one who picks us up?” I said. “Won’t our plan be kaput if the psychic shows up in person?”

“The Doc figures it won’t be him who shows up here,” said Twitch.

“Or her,” said David.

“Is the Doc back in the room we found her in?” I said.

“Of course she is,” said David.

“So, what do we do if the psychic is the one who shows up?”

“I’m installing some firewalls of my own,” said David, “in the three of us. The Doc has natural immunity, of course. But my firewalls should be enough to mask the plan from a rudimentary scan.”

“Have you ever done that before?” I said.

“Never,” said David. “But it should work.”

“Great,” I said.

“Or at least I hope it will,” David added.

“Super.”

“Give me a break. This is all new to me.”

“What do you need me to do?” I said.

“Nothing,” said David. “Just relax.”

“I’m not sure I can relax,” I said. “I’m pretty keyed up.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said David. “I’m all done.”

“I didn’t feel anything,” I said.

“Well, you wouldn’t feel anything,” said David. “Firewall’s in place all the same. You should be all set now.”

“Are you sure?” I said.

“Reasonably,” said David.

“What now?” I said.

“Now, we wait,” said Twitch.

“For how long?” I said.

“Until the bad guys show up,” said David.

“How long will that take?” I said, knowing I was being ridiculous, but unable to help myself.

“I’m the read-your-mind kind of psychic, not the see-into-the-future kind,” said David.

It turned out to take several hours — long enough that when the bad guys finally did show up, I was almost relieved. Long enough that before they arrived, one of us really did have to poop in the corner.

(I won’t say who.)

Chapter 24

“It’s going to be okay”

We’ve come to the second-most implausible detail of this entire affair, one I hesitate to relay due to its sheer unbelievability (not to mention ridiculousness). But in the interest of a full and accurate recounting, here it is:

Our abductors, when they did come, turned out to be ninjas.

There were six of them altogether. The door opened with a chunky clunk, and they entered, single file, dressed all in black, their faces obscured by cloth masks, with honest-to-god swords strapped to their backs. Believe me, I was as baffled as you are by this development, but that’s what happened.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said David, as the ninjas made their slow and silent way into the room. “You guys are joking, right?”

The ninjas gave no indication that they had heard him, wordlessly continuing their steady advance towards us. We watched them, unsure what was going to happen next. Would they be using those swords on us?

Well, no. As if on cue, they all simultaneously retrieved compact projectile weapons from their sleek ankle holsters and shot David with the same fibrous goo that had been used to incapacitate the Doc two days earlier. As choreographed as dancers, the ninjas trained their weapons on Twitch, firing as one and cocooning him in the identical sticky substance. He thrashed around on the floor for a bit and then lay still. Finally, they focused on me. The ninja nearest me paused, studying me, and for a moment I thought they might pass me by completely. But no. They fired their weaponized goo at me as well, and I found myself engulfed in it — blinded, incapacitated, stuck. Ninjas? I thought. Really? We’re being abducted by ninjas? The whole thing felt absurd.

I felt someone grab my ankles, and then someone else grabbed my wrists. Together they carried me out the door  like a pig on a spit. I could hear muffled protests, which could have been David or Twitch, but I kept silent. In a few minutes, I was tossed into a vehicle — a truck by the sound and feel of it. I heard doors slamming, and then we were moving. I still couldn’t move or speak, but I could hear pretty clearly. Experimentally, I tried rolling along the truck floor, and I soon found myself bumping into someone, who grunted in response. From the timbre of the grunt, I guessed it was David.

It’s going to be okay.

I could tell at once that this last thought, which had come unbidden to my mind, was not my own. Even though it hadn’t been vocalized, I recognized David’s “voice” just as clearly as if he’d spoken the words aloud — though at the moment, he was no more capable of speech than I was. He was communicating with me telepathically, sending a brief word of encouragement with the power of his mind — something I knew still took some exertion on his part. I felt grateful.

I decided to see how complex our communication could get. Are Dr. Xivray and Twitch in the truck with us? I asked, thinking the question as hard as I could.

It’s going to be okay was the only response I detected. It’s going to be okay, repeated over and over again, until I couldn’t be sure if David was still communicating the thought to me or if my own brain had simply latched onto the phrase as a soothing mantra.

My nose itched. I struggled against the thick, fibrous goo engulfing me, but it held fast. As you probably know, it’s maddening to have an itch you can’t scratch. I banged my cocooned face against the floor of the truck, which hurt a great deal but did nothing to stop the itching.

When I’m nervous and scared, I tend to babble. Not out loud, mind you. My brain babbles to itself, and my internal monologue becomes a ridiculous bouillabaisse of random nonsense and non sequiturs.

This next section of the book is deeply embarrassing to me, but in the interest of full disclosure, I will now relay the thoughts that went through my mind while I was incapacitated in the back of the truck.

I hope I see Naomi again, I thought, surprising myself. I hope she’s not upset if I don’t call her for a few days.

The truck rumbled on.

What a ridiculous thing to be thinking at this moment, I thought. What a ridiculous person I am.

The truck rumbled on.

If I’m killed, I thought, I wonder who’ll write my obituary.

The truck rumbled on.

If I survive this, I thought, I should totally write my own obituary, with instructions that it be sent to the newspaper upon my death. It could be an overview of my life into which the editor could plug in the date and details of my death. I need to do this.

The truck rumbled on.

What would my obituary say? I thought.

Vivian Derrick, former reporter for The Herald, died after a brief encounter with a ninja, which, as improbable as that may sound, was actually the most likely cause of her death after she joined the Xivray Institute.

The truck rumbled on.

Vivian Derrick, official biographer of scientist Niskayuna Xivray, died pursuing her lifelong dream of pretending to be someone she is not — someone courageous, daring, and bold, which is to say that she died pretending to be The Velvet Wasp, the heroine of a series of racy adult paperbacks she read one afternoon in her grandfather’s garage. You should read them. They’ll change your life.

The truck rumbled on.

Vivian Derrick, one-time drunken sexual partner of Herald reporter Naomi Rogers, died recently without even calling Naomi once, which made Naomi so mad she published a news story that exposed long-held secrets of legendary scientist Niskayuna Xivray.

The truck rumbled on.

Vivian Derrick, a ridiculous person who couldn’t stop thinking ridiculous thoughts during the most inappropriate moments, died after doing something ridiculous.

The truck rumbled on.

The thing about my inner babblogue is that after a few minutes of high-intensity ridiculousness, my brain tends to short circuit, and no matter how stressful the situation, I fall asleep. And that’s what happened. Trussed up in the back of the truck, encased in a thick, fibrous, goo that blinded me and rendered me immobile, I fell into a deep sleep and dreamed of Naomi.

When I woke up, I was still in the truck, but it had stopped. I tried sitting up, then somebody hit me in the head with something heavy, hard enough to put me back out again.

Chapter 25

“This never happened to John McClane in Die Hard”

Pain.

For the third time that week, I woke up with a singular sensation of pain, centered once again in my head. And yes, once again, my head felt as if someone had placed it firmly in a vice, tightening that vice almost (but not quite) to the point of crushing my skull. Tighter this time than the previous two times, which I would not have thought possible. But the imaginary vice clamped around my head was indeed tighter than it had ever been.

“This has got to stop,” I said aloud, my eyes still shut. The sound of my own voice sent thunderous shockwaves of almost unbearable pain through my ears and into my brain, causing me to make a silent vow never to speak again.

Against all better judgment, I opened my eyes. I found myself in a windowless room, floor and walls made of cement, harsh fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The bulk of the goo that had been cocooning me before I lost consciousness had been cleared off, but much of it still clung to various parts of me.

I suspected I was underground, based on the quality of the air, musty and somewhat dank. I took a quick inventory:

1)     My clothes.

Inventory complete.

I was alone in the room, which was empty except for me. No chair, no bed, no telephone from which I could call for a rescue. There was one door, which I tried, fully expecting to find it locked, which it was, of course, sealed tight, its hinges on the other side (not that I had any tools with which I could have removed hinges). I sat down on the cold, hard floor, cross-legged, and tried to figure out what to do next.

This is a very bad situation, I thought to myself. Of the four of us who had been abducted, I judged myself to be most expendable. David and Dr. Xivray would be desired for their extraordinary abilities, and Twitch has a ridiculously large number of useful talents of his own. But I? What use was a writer in this scenario? Perhaps I could be used as a bargaining chip, the threat of violence to my person compelling Dr. Xivray, David, or Twitch to go along with whatever nefarious scheme our mysterious abductor had in mind.

That did not make me feel better.

What would the Velvet Wasp do in this situation? I wondered.

The Velvet Wasp wouldn’t have found herself in these circumstances. She was far too suave to be ambushed by ridiculous ninjas. Nevertheless, if she did somehow find herself in these circumstances, I imagined she would…

1)     Bang on the door.

2)     Wait for a thug to come open the door and ask her what the hell she thinks she’s doing.

3)     Incapacitate the thug with a well-placed karate chop.

4)     Escape.

Not bad. What it lacked in specifics, it made up for in brevity. There were just a few problems, however:

1)     It’s unlikely that a real-life thug would fall for such a ruse.

2)     I don’t know any karate.

Okay, so a Velvet Wasp plan was out. It was time to come up with a Vivian Derrick plan.

I had nothing.

I closed my eyes and tried to see if I could pick up a signal from David. I thought maybe he was nearby, telepathically transmitting his rescue plan to me, but after a few minutes of psychic silence, it became clear that this was not the case.

I looked up at the ceiling. It was a gridwork of metal frames into which were nestled lightweight panels, each about three by five feet. The ceiling was seven feet off the floor — too high for me to do anything about. I thought maybe if I stood on the doorknob, I might be able to push one of the panels up and see what was above it.

So, that’s what I did. Or at least tried to do, more than a few times, because the doorknob was an extremely small surface on which to balance oneself, and my foot kept slipping off of it. I scraped both my elbows and bruised my hip crashing into the cement floor (repeatedly) before I finally thought to remove my shoes. In bare feet, my purchase on the narrow doorknob became marginally more secure, and I was able to push up one of the ceiling panels and poke my head through the open space to see what could be seen.

Well, nothing at first, as it was very dark up inside the ceiling. But as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could make out a network of pipes and wires emerging from a metal duct four feet across. It looked traversable to me, if only barely. Perhaps I could effect a Die Hard-style escape through the vents. It certainly beat sitting around my cell, waiting for my abductors to complete their cost-benefit analysis on my life.

With some difficulty, I hoisted myself up into the ceiling, planting my palms on the edge of the conduit in an attempt to gain purchase. My legs bicycle-kicked uselessly in the air as I hung there, suspended, for what felt like many minutes. I imagined I would make for a ridiculous sight to anyone who happened to be in my cell at the moment — which, fortunately, no one was. Finally, with great effort, I managed to pull the upper half of my body into the conduit and grapple along on my elbows. The ceiling panel I had shimmied through fell neatly back into place, creating an interesting locked-room mystery for my captors if they happened upon my cell in the next few minutes.

I crawled forward for about ten feet, where I encountered a ninety-degree bend in the duct, going from horizontal to vertical. I twisted around so I was on my back, my face pointed up the shaft into the darkness. I could see nothing at all — nothing to hold onto, no way to pull myself up. In theory, if I could just get some sort of purchase on the sides of the duct, I could shimmy my way up, bracing my back against one side of the duct and my knees against the other, like the Grinch in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” But the walls of the duct were smooth and slippery, and I didn’t quite see how I could manage it.

“This never happened to John McClane in Die Hard,” I grumbled, and then I sneezed seven times in a row, a response to the century of dust I was kicking up with all my useless scrabbling.

Realizing I was accomplishing nothing, I shimmied backwards down the length of the conduit, back the way I had come, pried up the ceiling panel, and awkwardly dropped the six and half feet back onto the floor of my cell, cultivating a few more bruises in the process. I lay on my back on the floor, blinking up at the askew ceiling panel from whence I had fallen.

Two faces came into my field of view, peering down at me from above.

The faces belonged to David and Twitch, who were now in my room somehow, their mouths both agape (Twitch’s in astonishment, David’s in bemusement).

“Heya, Velvet,” said David. “Whatcha doin’?”

Chapter 26

“Quieter might be better”

The following exchange occurred very quickly:

“How did you get in my cell?” I said.

“This—” said David.

“Where are we?” I said.

“I—” said Twitch.

“How long have we been here?”

“We—” said David.

“Where’s Dr. Xivray?” I said.

“We—” said Twitch.

“How do we get out of here?” I said.

“Velvet, will you shut up?” said David.

I shut up.

“There,” said David. “Now, to take your questions in order: This isn’t your cell. It’s our cell.”

“I—” I said.

“No, shhh,” said David, cutting me off. “You had your turn.”

I shut up again.

“Second,” said David, “we don’t know where we are. They knocked us out too, and they took away Twitch’s wedding ring doohickey, so we’re in the dark here. There’s not even a guard nearby that I can get a read off of.”

“We don’t know where the Doc is,” said David. “When we woke up, neither you nor she was with us.”

“How did I get here?” I said.

“You crashed through the ceiling,” said Twitch, “about 30 seconds ago.”

“I was trying to escape,” I said weakly.  “I thought this was my cell.”

“Yours must be one over,” said Twitch.  “What did you see up there?”

“The duct goes straight up from here. No way to climb it.”

“I wonder…” said Twitch, looking thoughtful.

“Not bad,” said David, nodding in agreement with a thought Twitch hadn’t yet expressed aloud. “Make like Spider-Man.”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“The weaponized adhesive used to incapacitate us,” said Twitch, gesturing towards the bits of goo that still clung to us all. “It’s very sticky.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” I said.

“So maybe we can use it to gain purchase against the walls of the shaft,” said Twitch.

“Like Spider-Man,” David added.

“But it’s all hardened,” I said.

“It should regain its stickiness if it’s moistened,” said Twitch.

“Moistened with what?” I said. “We’re not exactly lousy with sinks in here.”

Twitch looked blank. “Any ideas?” he said.

I realized I actually did have an idea, but I didn’t like it one bit. “Damn it, yes,” I said.

“Gross, Velvet,” said David, picking up my thought.

“I know, I know,” I acknowledged, “but it should work, shouldn’t it?”

“What?” said Twitch.

David and I looked at Twitch, waiting for him to get it.

“What?” he said.

We looked at him some more. I’ll admit, neither one of us wanted to say it out loud.

“Oh, gross,” he said, finally getting it.

“I know,” I said. “I don’t understand why this caper involves so much peeing on the floor of rooms we’re locked in.”

“Did you mean to end that sentence in a preposition?” said David. “I thought you were a writer.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

We busied ourselves scraping the various bits of hardened goo off ourselves as best we could, making a small pile in the corner of the cell. When we had a respectable collection, I said, “You guys should do it. At least you can aim.”

David and Twitch glanced at each other. “So, do you think you have enough pee in you,” said David, “or should we… do it together?” He grimaced at his own suggestion.

“I can do it,” said Twitch. “By myself.”

“Okay,” said David, looking relieved.

David and I turned to face the wall. We could hear Twitch unzip his pants, followed by silence.

“What’s with the counting?” said David.

“What?” I said.

“Twitch. He’s counting in his head.”

“I count in my head to get the stream started,” said Twitch. “Is that all right with you?”

“Hey, it’s none of my business,” said David.

“Then why’d you friggin’ bring it up?” said Twitch.

“This has been quite a day,” I said.

“At least you got laid last night,” said David.

“Shut up, David,” I said.

“Everybody shut up,” said Twitch. “I can’t do this with all your yap-yap going on.”

David and I shut up, and after a brief pause, we heard the unmistakable sound of Twitch urinating.

“Nice,” said David.

“Shut up,” Twitch and I said in unison.

We heard Twitch’s urine stream stop and his zipper zip. “Okay, let’s try it,” he said.

David and I turned around to see Twitch standing next to the urine-drenched goo on the floor. “Man, I will never forgive you for even thinking of this,” David told me.

“We could have used your pee,” said Twitch.

“Not better,” said David.

“Let’s just get it over with,” I said. I hunkered down next to the goo and delicately placed my hands in it. It was fetid and foul-smelling, and it clung to my skin like black tar.

“Okay, here goes,” said David, joining me in the goo-slathering. Twitch followed our lead, and soon our hands and knees were sodden with the sticky, stinky mess.

“Let’s see if this works,” said David. He leaned forward and made a stirrup with his hands. “Come on, Velvet,” I’ll boost you up.

“Won’t my foot stick to your hand?” I said.

He turned his palms inward, holding them slightly apart so they wouldn’t stick to each other. “Try it now,” he said.

Awkwardly, I placed my bare foot on the crook of his hands and wrists, and I hoisted myself up into the ceiling space I had so recently occupied. I began making my way towards the previously impassable duct, using my elbows to scoot myself forward, saving the sticky stuff for the vertical climb.

“You’re next,” I heard David say to Twitch.

I heard fumbling and scattered curses, and then Twitch’s head appeared in the ceiling space with me, closely followed by the rest of him.

“Lead on, Macduff,” he said.

“You know, that’s actually a misquotation from Macbeth. The actual quote is ‘Lay on, Macduff,’ and it’s an invitation to fight.”

“Velvet,” said Twitch. He didn’t have to say anything else.

“Sorry,” I muttered and advanced towards the bend in the duct. I could hear Twitch shuffling behind me. David, far taller than both Twitch and myself, was actually tall enough to grab one of the pipes above the ceiling panel (if he jumped a bit). I could hear him behind Twitch, hoisting himself up into the duct with a painful grunt.

I made it to the bend and, with my right hand, reached up as high into the duct as I could, flattening my goo-laden palm against the side. I gave it a moment to set, and then I began pulling myself up.

“I think it’s working!” I shouted.

“Quieter might be better,” said Twitch softly.

“Right, sorry,” I whispered. I reached up with my left hand to give myself a new handhold and (with some effort) detached my right hand from its original position. My knees were now up to my chest, braced against the inside wall of the duct, the wet goo slathered on my legs giving me some purchase as I pushed myself up with my back.

And thus we progressed, the three of us, up the seemingly endless vertical duct, inching ever upward with the help of some very sticky, urine-soaked goo. It was quite hot, and soon my shirt was soaked with sweat.

After a very long and arduous climb, I came to a grate. I pushed on it experimentally, and it swung out away from me into a darkened room. I took a deep breath and crawled through the opening.

“Where are you going?” said Twitch.

“I’ve come to a room,” I said, standing up. By my feet, Twitch was now shimmying into the room. I could see the grate was set into a curved wall. I reached down to help Twitch to his feet, getting my hand stuck to his arm in the process. David was now coming through the gap, but with his larger frame, he had to do a great deal more wriggling to make it.

“Uh, guys?” said Twitch.

David paused, almost completely through the grate now, absorbing whatever Twitch had on his mind before he had a chance to say anything.

“I know where we are,” said Twitch, sounding dumbfounded.

For the first time, I took a minute to examine my surroundings. There was no one else in the room, but I finally understood Twitch’s shock. It was very dark, but light from the floodlights outside spilled into the room, defining its shape and the furniture within it. It was a room we all recognized, though none of us had ever been in it before. David got to his feet, brushing cobwebs from his clothing.

We’ve arrived at the most implausible detail of this story — one more implausible than the ninjas even. If this part of the story were relayed to me (rather than having experienced it directly), I would have rejected it out of hand as being too outlandish to be believed. But I did experience it, and as this accounting is meant to be a full and accurate report, with no omissions or embellishments, I must proceed, simply stating the facts as they occurred.

David, Twitch, and I were standing in the Oval Office.

“Huh,” said David.

Chapter 27

“This is going to make a cracking good story someday”

“Holy shit,” David remarked, after a moment’s reflection. “If Little Odin’s team is still tracking us, they must be freaking out right about now.”

“Little Odin’s good,” whispered Twitch, “but he’s not gonna storm the White House.”

“What do we do?” I said.

“Well, that’s about to be decided for us,” said David, “in about three seconds.”

About three seconds later, four Secret Service agents entered the room at a full run, each with their gun drawn, each weapon pointed right at us. Our unauthorized and unorthodox presence in the Oval Office had evidently tripped all sorts of alarms. All four agents were yelling at once.

“Everybody down!”

“Who are you?”

“Nobody move!”

“How did you get here?”

It would be impossible to simultaneously respond to or comply with each of the above exclamations, so we milled about in panicked confusion until the tallest agent, who also appeared to be in charge, had a sudden realization.

“My God,” he shouted, piercing the bedlam, “you’re David Thorne!” David’s picture had been plastered across every media outlet in the world after his rescue of the president, which had only occurred a few weeks earlier. The Secret Service especially would not soon be forgetting his visage.

“That’s right,” said David. “I’m David Thorne. And these are my colleagues. I’ll vouch for them.”

This shut everyone up for a moment, as the agents contemplated what to do about a globally famous national hero wandering around the Oval Office without an invitation, escorted by three completely unknown subjects. None of the agents lowered their weapons, I noticed.

“How did you get in here?” said the agent in charge.

“That’s kind of a long story,” said David.

“Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell it,” said the agent in charge.

“That won’t be necessary, Agent Griggs,” said a voice from behind us. Twitch, David, and I turned to see who it was, but the agents stayed laser-focused on us.

I recognized the man who had entered the room as McKinley Garfield, the White House chief of staff. I saw David’s face register astonishment and realized at once that Garfield was our mysterious psychic nemesis, his identity revealed to us at last.

“Mr. Thorne, Mr. Jefferson, and Ms. Derrick are my guests this evening. I’m afraid I bent the rules a bit by not signing them in, and they bent the rules a bit by wandering off on their own. But I’m sure they didn’t intend to raise undue alarm.”

The agent in charge (Agent Griggs, apparently) was obviously skeptical of this explanation, but Garfield outranked him by many levels, so he kept his skepticism to himself — at least verbally (Garfield, being psychic, would be fully aware of the agent’s doubts). As Griggs and his colleagues holstered their weapons (and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding), Griggs said, “Very good, sir. Can we be of any further assistance?”

“Not tonight. Thank you, Griggs.”

“Don’t mention it, sir,” said Griggs, who, after casting one last quizzical glance in our direction, left the room with the other agents.

“I must say, it’s a relief to dispense with all the secrecy, wouldn’t you agree?” said Garfield. “All this subterfuge, it’s bad for the digestion.” He grinned a predatory grin. “Come, won’t you join me in my office?”

He opened the door from which he had entered and stepped into a large, well-appointed office. He strolled casually towards an enormous oak desk and sat down behind it, not once glancing back to see if we’d follow him. After a few seconds of awkward indecision, Twitch, David, and I looked at each other and reached an unspoken understanding. We stepped into Garfield’s office and took a seat across from him — or rather, Twitch and I took seats across from him. David stood, as there were only two chairs.

“I’d like my ring back,” said Twitch.

“Of course,” said Garfield. He reached into an inner pocket and retrieved Twitch’s wedding ring. He slid it across the desk towards Twitch, who snatched it up and placed it back on his left ring finger. With his right hand, he angrily fidgeted with it. “Where’s Niskayuna?” he said.

Garfield nodded, as if something he’d long suspected had been confirmed. “Dr. Xivray is safe,” he said.

“Can I just say,” I said, my nervous energy boiling out of me in words. “I mean… ninjas? Really?”

Garfield chuckled. “I hope you’ll forgive my little indulgence in melodrama. This is going to make a cracking good story someday.”

“So, what’s the plan here?” said David. “What do you want with us?”

Garfield raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know?” he said.

“Damn it, you know I can’t read you,” said David. “Those damn firewalls of yours. You’re a closed book.”

“And you — all of you — are open books to me,” said Garfield. “Except Dr. Xivray, of course. Which I find fascinating, by the way.” He looked at David. “Don’t you find that fascinating?”

“Yes, I do,” David admitted.

Garfield leaned back in his chair, examining us the way a toddler would examine some ants. “I must say,” he said, “I admire your ingenuity and courage.

“That’s fine,” said David, “but what’s the plan here?”

“I have no intention of harming you,” said Garfield. “But I can no longer allow you to interfere with my plans. You’ll stay on as my guests until this is all over. After that, you’ll be free to go. This is my solemn vow to you.”

“But what’s your plan?” said David.

Garfield smiled. It was an evil smile, I thought. “Is this the part where the villain reveals his master plan to the hero in one long monologue? This isn’t the movies, Mr. Thorne. I’m afraid you’ll just have to remain in the dark and find out along with the rest of the world just what I’ve been up to.”

“I don’t think so,” said Twitch, and Garfield looked startled. Like David, he was probably used to knowing in advance what anybody was going to say, but he definitely hadn’t expected Twitch to speak.

“What…” Garfield began. His brow furrowed in confused astonishment, and then his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped face-first into his desk. A few seconds later, he began snoring.

“What the hell is happening?” I said.

“Nice work, Twitch,” said David. “That was A-number-one badass, sincerely.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” said Twitch.

“Could someone please tell me what’s happening?”

“I put up firewalls of my own, remember?” said David, “Our friend here didn’t have a clue what our plan was.”

“I’m not sure I fully understand what the plan was,” I said. “You want to fill me in?”

“Hey, we would have filled you in earlier but you were too busy getting laid,” said David.

“That tracker you swallowed,” said Twitch, “it’s emitting a low-frequency pulse that immunizes you against the neural paralyzing signal I just unleashed with the ring Garfield so helpfully returned to me.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “So, what now?”

“I’ll tell you what now,” said David. “What now is…” He frowned and turned to Twitch. “Twitch?” he said.

Twitch took off his wedding ring and pressed it twice against Garfield’s desk, causing the holographic keyboard and monitor to emerge. His fingers moved with great speed over the keyboard of light.

“What are you-” I started to say.

“Shh,” said David. “He’s working.”

“I’ve made contact with the Doc,” said Twitch. “She’s in a locked room near where we were being held.” His fingers moved some more. “Update: The room she’s in is now unlocked.”

“Let’s move out,” said David, striding towards the door.

“What, we’re just going to wander around the White House, unescorted?” I said.

“Yup,” said Twitch. He rose to his feet and hustled to catch up with David.

“Well, wait for me,” I said.

It was evidently quite late at night, but there’s always at least some activity in the White House. We encountered six staffers on our way to Dr. Xivray’s cell. David did his Jedi mind trick on all of them and they all let us be. By the sixth, David was looking pretty haggard, the mental excursion having taken a toll. Fortunately, we reached Dr. Xivray without encountering anyone else. She greeted us at the door.

“Is Little Odin nearby?” she said by way of greeting.

“He’s at the JW Marriott,” said David. “Two blocks away. He’s got a car waiting to take us to the airport.”

“Which I arranged,” said Twitch, slightly annoyed that David had swiped his update telepathically and beaten him to the bulletin.

“That’s fine,” said Dr. Xivray. “Let’s go.”

Security at the White House is among the most robust in the world, and walking out of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue without permission or escort is almost as difficult as walking in uninvited. Still, between David’s psychic push and Twitch’s neural transmitter, we were at something of an advantage.

“Stop! Who the hell are you?”

“I’m David Thorne, national hero,” said David, “and it’s your very specific job to escort us out of here.”

“I’m sorry. Of course it is.”

We managed to get out and completely off the White House grounds in about seven minutes, putting only one guard to sleep in the process.

As we hustled down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Marriott, I said, “But we didn’t learn anything. We’ve got nothing. We’re leaving empty-handed.”

“Not exactly,” said David, smiling the smile of someone with a secret.

“What?” I said.

“Garfield’s evil plan?” said David. “I know what it is.”

Chapter 28

“You’ve got to have a hollowed-out volcano”

“I’d like an update, please,” said Dr. Xivray.

We were seated once again in the Xivray Institute conference room — Dr. Xivray, Twitch, David, and myself. Throughout our journey home, as we’d been traveling on a commercial flight, we’d stayed agonizingly silent on the crucial discoveries gleaned from our White House excursion. In addition, we’d been accompanied by Little Odin, and as much as Dr. Xivray trusted him, he still didn’t know her biggest secret.  This was our first opportunity to speak freely.

“Well, the techniques you taught me worked,” said David.

“What techniques?” I demanded.

“The Doc here has been working with me on hypnosis. Or rather, giving me relaxation exercises to help my concentration. It gives me more control. I can even turn down the ‘feed’ when I need some quiet.”

“And yet you still pried into my sex life,” I said.

“I said I could do it when I wanted to,” said David. “But more importantly, I can penetrate those stupid psychic firewalls Garfield put up everywhere. I was able to knock his down without him even knowing. The chump never even saw it coming.”

“What did you find out?” said Twitch.

“What’s Garfield’s ultimate goal?” I said.

“World domination,” said David.

“Oh, good. I was worried that it would be something terrible,” said Dr. Xivray.

David looked at her, frowning. “Did you just… make a joke?” he said.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” said Dr. Xivray, as stone-faced and deadpan as ever.

“You never look like you’re joking,” said David.

Twitch raised a fist to his mouth and produced a small peep. “It’s true,” he said. “You don’t.”

“Well, I’m entitled to indulge in an occasional jest,” said Dr. Xivray, “am I not?”

“No argument,” said David. “Shall I continue?”

“I should hope so,” said Dr. Xivray.

“You see, Garfield believes the human race is inherently corrupt,” said David.

“That’s… not entirely without merit,” I said.

“Yeah, well phase one is to engineer a full-on societal collapse.”

“Like Blofeld in The Spy Who Loved Me,” said Twitch.

“Exactly,” said David, “but without the secret lair in the hollowed-out volcano.”

“That’s crazy,” said Twitch. “You’ve got to have a hollowed-out volcano.”

“I know, right?”

“Would you two knock it off?” said Dr. Xivray, having apparently already exhausted her capacity for jokes.

“Sorry, boss,” said Twitch.

“Besides,” said Dr. Xivray, “the movie with Blofeld and the hollowed-out volcano wasn’t The Spy Who Loved Me. It was You Only Live Twice.”

David slapped the table. “That’s right,” he said.
“How does he plan to bring about societal collapse?” I said, trying to get the conversation back on track.

“Disrupt the global economy, engineer a worldwide famine, spark the next world war. Also: erase everybody’s Instagram accounts.”

“Now, that’s evil,” said Twitch.

“You said that was phase one,” said Dr. Xivray. “What’s phase two?”

“Phase two is reconstruction.”

“Reconstruction,” I said.

“Yup. And with reconstruction comes… wait for it… psychic powers for everybody!”

Twitch coughed. “I’m sorry, what?”

“That’s where the Doc comes in,” said David. “He wants to steal the technology she invented to record her mind and use it on himself. Not to download his whole brain the way the Doc did, but just that one particular talent — his psychic ability. His plan is to make a kind of app from his talent, or maybe a better term would be a virus — transmittable electronically using satellites and the internet, but designed to ‘infect’ biological organisms (namely, people), eventually targeting everyone on the whole damned planet.”

“How is that supposed to work?” I said. “How can a computer virus infect human minds?”

“I don’t know,” said David. “Some sciencey shit, I suspect.”

“He wants everybody to be psychic?” said Twitch.

“That sounds awful,” I said.

“The idea is to link everyone on the planet psychically, and not just people within 50 yards of each other — but to create a worldwide neural network that everyone would be plugged into at all times. Like an internet for our brains that you can never unplug from.”

“Did I say awful?” I said. “I meant horrific.”

“In a way, it’s the logical progression of our increasingly online society,” Dr. Xivray mused. “Personal details thought private a generation ago are now shared freely on social media. Who can say what privacy will mean to future generations?”

“But why is societal collapse part of the plan?” I said.

“Mankind is at its best when things are at their worst,” said David. “He believes that the rebuilding efforts will unite us as a species. His idea is that once everyone on the planet is plugged into the consciousness of everyone else on the planet, it will bring about an end to misunderstandings, prejudice, bigotry, hatred, jealousy, and ignorance. Garfield believes that a collective world consciousness would be able to solve virtually any problem.”

“At the price of privacy and individuality,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Garfield considers that a small price to pay for the return he expects.”

“But he’s in charge, right?” I said. “It’s not completely egalitarian.”

“That’s right,” said David. “He thinks of himself kind of like the ultimate message board moderator — banning trolls and other undesirables, when necessary.”

“Banning?” said Twitch.

“That’s his word for it. But what is it really?  Execution. Everyone, and I mean everyone, will have a ‘kill switch’ that Garfield will be able to flip at will.”

“Oh, that’s just swell,” I said.

Dr. Xivray closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and was silent for a long time. David, Twitch, and I watched her, knowing she was thinking deeply.

“I understand his reasoning,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Think of the problems that could be solved by perfect, unfiltered communication among all human beings. No language barriers. No cultural barriers. Just pure shared consciousness among seven billion people. I imagine we could wipe out disease and starvation within a generation, and colonize the galaxy within the next century.”

“Wait a minute,” said Twitch. “Do you actually think Garfield’s plan is… good?”

Dr. Xivray opened her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Garfield’s a madman. We must do everything in our power to stop him.”

Chapter 29

“I knew you’d call”

Now that we knew Garfield’s plan, Twitch took extra steps to secure the proprietary Xivray software, locking it in the Xivray Institute vault and enlisting Long Hat’s robots — Bert (formerly 44J33), Judy (formerly XK729), and Ray (formerly Y2485) — to stand guard in front of the vault 24 hours a day. The robots objected to the break in their recording schedule, but Dr. Xivray convinced them of the importance of the cause. (There’s a little bit of her in them, of course, in the disposition subroutines Twitch gave Long Hat, not complex enough to attract Garfield’s attention, but autonomous enough to give them their own personalities.) The robots would not be susceptible to mind manipulation, the thinking went, but just to be on the safe side, all three of them downloaded a jujitsu subroutine to bolster their defensive capabilities.

Secure as we were that the software Garfield was seeking was safe, we still had concerns. Namely:

1)     Garfield might attempt to kidnap Dr. Xivray again, and go digging into her brain to get at the software. Therefore, Little Odin and David never let Dr. Xivray out of their sight — Little Odin for his tactical experience, and David because he could combat any mental manipulation that might play a role in her abduction.

2)     Garfield might trigger the global societal collapse anyway, even without the software in hand, and count on us to share it with him to aid in the reconstruction. To that end, time was of the essence.

“But how do we get at him?” said Twitch. “He’ll never let us get that close again.” At Dr. Xivray’s insistence, we were on the Institute’s front lawn, participating (reluctantly, all of us, except for Dr. Xivray) in early morning calisthenics, led as always by Little Odin. Dr. Xivray believes that exercise stimulates clearer thinking, and that all of us had spent too much of the past week either sitting or lying down while incapacitated by restraining goo. I noticed that exactly no other Xivray Institute personnel had joined us this morning.

“Why didn’t you take him out when you had the chance?” said Little Odin, while doing his (approximately) five thousandth jumping jack of the morning.

“Reconnaissance and recovery were the primary objectives,” said Dr. Xivray, matching Little Odin jump for jump. “Assassination was not on the table. It still isn’t, by the way.”

“If he’s as powerful as you say he is, you may need to put it on the table,” said Little Odin.

“Yeah, I’m with Little Odin,” said David, dutifully performing his jumping jacks as well. “I mean, how are we supposed to stop him without a bullet? Do you think he’d hesitate to take us out? Believe me, he wouldn’t.”

“That may be so, David,” said Dr. Xivray, “but I hold myself and all of you to a higher moral code than the one McKinley Garfield observes. I’m soliciting alternative suggestions. Assassination is not an option.”

Huffing in exasperation, David continued his jumping jacks.

“Velvet, do you have an idea?” said Dr. Xivray.

I stopped my jumping jacks. I can’t talk and do jumping jacks  at the same time. (Also, I was exhausted.)

“The power of the press,” I said.

Dr. Xivray looked intrigued. “Elaborate,” she said.

“Garfield’s been operating in the shadows for far too long,” I said. “Let’s drag him into the light.”

“How do you propose to do that?” said Dr. Xivray.

“As if you didn’t know,” said David. “You don’t have to be a mind reader to know that she wants us to use her girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I said. “At least, I don’t think she is. But yes.”

“Dragging Garfield into the light would likely mean dragging myself into the light as well,” said Dr. Xivray.

“I agree,” I said. “I’m afraid Naomi would insist upon it.”

“What do you mean, dragging yourself into the spotlight?” said Little Odin.

“Twitch, what do you think?” said Dr. Xivray.

Twitch said nothing. The only indication that he had heard her was that he started jumping faster, as if trying to outrun the question.

“Twitch?” said Dr. Xivray.

Twitch said nothing. Jumped even faster.

“Gilbert?” said Dr. Xivray, and at her use of his real name, Twitch stopped jumping. He stared at her for a beat and then took off at a dead run.

Dr. Xivray called after him once, but he didn’t break stride. He rounded the corner of the building and disappeared from view.

David cleared his throat, and Dr. Xivray glanced at him. “Going public would make it official,” said David. “I mean, he’s always known, of course, but this would put a period at the end of that chapter. A part of him… a part of him has been pretending all this time.”

“Pretending what?”

“That you were her.”

“What are you guys talking about?” said Little Odin.

“Nothing,” said David. “Maybe Dr. Xivray will explain when you get older.”

(Personally, I wouldn’t tease Little Odin, who has about six inches on David, not to mention forty pounds, all muscle, but David has never been the cautious type. End parenthetical.)

“David,” said Dr. Xivray, ceasing her jumping jacks at last, “please apologize to Little Odin for that belittling remark.”

“You know what?” said David. “I need a nickname. Everyone here has a nickname except me.”

“How about ‘Asshole?’” said Little Odin, glowering.

“Too awkward,” said David. “Doesn’t have the same snap as ‘Little Odin’ or ‘Velvet.’”

“Enough,” said Dr. Xivray. “Apologize to Little Odin and let’s move on. Also, I don’t have a nickname either.”

“You don’t need one,” said David. “You’re the Doc.”

“David,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Fine,” said David, rolling his eyes. He turned to Little Odin. “I’m sorry for my rudeness.”

“Forget it,” said Little Odin with a shrug.

“Velvet,” said Dr. Xivray, “I will take your suggestion under advisement.”

“We may not have a lot of time,” I said.

“I understand. I promise to make a decision quickly. In the meantime, could you please go speak to Twitch? For obvious reasons, I think he’d rather not hear from me at the moment.”

“Or me,” said David.

“Yeah, no duh,” I said.

David looked a little hurt, which surprised me, quite frankly. To atone, I said, “Hey, listen, I never thanked you for what you did in the truck.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said David.

“You don’t?” I said, surprised. David always knew what people were talking about. He was a psychic, after all.

“Well, now I do,” said David. “But you’re wrong. I wasn’t transmitting ‘It’s going to be okay’ to you. Not at all.”

“What do you mean? Of course you were. I heard you loud and clear.”

“Nope,” said David. “That’s what I was thinking all right, but I was thinking it to myself. I was not transmitting.”

“But I heard you.”

David shrugged. “Maybe I’m rubbing off on you. Maybe you’re becoming a little psychic yourself.”

“Fascinating,” said Dr. Xivray.

Puzzled, I started off in the direction Twitch had gone.

Minutes later, I found him in his lab, tinkering with a radio that looked like it was built in the ’30s. (For all I knew, it was.)

“Hey, Velvet,” he said, without turning around.

“Hey, Twitch.”

“Did she send you to talk to me?”

“Yeah. She’s worried about you.”

“Yeah, well. She doesn’t need to worry.”

As usual in Twtich’s lab, every available surface was cluttered with electronics and other scientific bric-a-brac. Gently, I moved a box of transistors from a bench to the floor and sat in the space I had just created. “We all worry,” I said.

“What’s she gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Twitch turned around to face me. As much as he’s accomplished, as much as he’s been through, it’s easy to forget sometimes that he’s still a kid in many ways, barely out of his teens. At that moment, though, he looked more like a little boy than ever. “What do you think she should do?” he said.

I hesitated, and Twitch spoke again. “You think she should tell the world, don’t you?”

“I think the world is going to find out, whether she tells it or not.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“If she comes forward on her own,” I said, “maybe we can use it to our advantage.”

“Yeah? How do you figure?”

“I don’t know. But if we don’t get in front of this story, this story is going to get in front of us. And right now, we don’t need the distraction.”

Twitch shrugged and turned back towards his radio. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

I stepped towards him, with the intention of putting my hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, Velvet,” said Twitch, without turning around. The warning tone in his voice made me pause mid-stride. I lowered my hand. “You bet,” I said.

Twitch tapped his ear and murmured, “Roger that.”

“What is it?” I said.

“The Doc says she’s made a decision.”

“Already? That was fast.”

“Yeah, well, she does have a computer brain.”

“What is it?”

“She didn’t say. But she wants you to call Naomi Rogers, have her come here immediately.”

“I don’t have Naomi’s number,” I said.

“Isn’t she your girlfriend now?”

“No! Look, I… I don’t know.”

Twitch tapped his thigh for several seconds. “I just sent her private, unlisted phone number to your Q-phone. I’ve added her to your contacts. You can decide her category later. Also, your phone’s dialing hers as we speak. Should be ringing now. Yeah, you should probably get your phone out.”

I scrambled to retrieve my Q-phone from my pocket. “It’s ringing? Now?”

“The Doc did say ‘immediately.’”

I heard Naomi’s voice as I brought my Q-phone to my ear, and my heart sped up a little. “I knew you’d call,” she was saying. I could hear her smile right through the phone.

Chapter 30

“Something for something”

“I’m offering you an exclusive,” said Dr. Xivray.

“I already have an exclusive,” said Naomi, her eyes shining. She spoke with a cockiness that should be off-putting, but which I found charming. (I’ll admit, I’m smitten.) “No one else is chasing this story,” Naomi continued, “because no one else has figured out what I’ve figured out. No one else has even come close to putting it all together, have they? Kudos, by the way, for keeping it a secret for as long as you have.”

“Thank you,” said Dr. Xivray, “though I rather hoped to keep it secret for even longer.”

“Yeah, well, what are you gonna do?” said Naomi, shrugging.

We were meeting in the Xivray Institute conference room: Naomi and I, seated across from Dr. Xivray, who frowned at Naomi’s insouciance. She evidently didn’t find Naomi as charming as I did.

At Dr. Xivray’s request, David and Twitch were not present for this meeting, but I had no doubt they were monitoring us from Twitch’s observation room. I resisted the urge to wave in the general direction of the hidden surveillance camera, which I knew to be positioned near the heating vent.

“I’m prepared to give you full access to my medical files,” said Dr. Xivray to Naomi, “and answer any questions you may have about them, on the record.”

Naomi pushed her fedora back on her head and leaned forward, her elbows resting on the conference table. “And the quo?” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you’re giving me quid. I assume you want a quo in return.”

“Ah, yes,” said Dr. Xivray, nodding. “Quid pro quo. ‘Something for something’ in Latin.”

“I prefer the translation ‘this for that,’” said Naomi. “I don’t know. It’s just jauntier.”

“Fine,” said Dr. Xivray. The ‘quo’ is that I want you to hold your story, just a little bit longer. A disclosure of this nature promises to create quite a stir, and a stir is the last thing we need right now. Also, before I’ll consent to you publishing your story—”

“I don’t need your consent,” said Naomi. “We have a free press in this country.”

“Naomi—” I began, but Dr. Xivray cut me off.

“You’re right, of course,” she said, “so, not my consent, but my cooperation. My confirmation. That would help you, would it not?”
“Indeed,” said Naomi.

“But first, I want your help to bring down the most dangerous man on the planet, a man who currently sits at the right hand of the president.”

“You’re talking about McKinley Garfield,” said Naomi. She didn’t seem at all surprised.

“That’s right.”

“He’s got a concrete plan for world domination, doesn’t he?” said Naomi. “And it’s already in its final stages, isn’t it? Global economic collapse, world war, panic, chaos, hysteria — real end-of-world-type stuff.”

Dr. Xivray said nothing, arching an eyebrow in my direction.

“Am I getting warm?” said Naomi, glancing back and forth between Dr. Xivray and myself.

“I told you she was good,” I said.

Dr. Xivray turned her attention back to Naomi. “A number of us, including Velvet here, deliberately put ourselves in a great deal of jeopardy to ascertain what you just so casually asserted. May I ask how you came to that conclusion?”

“You can ask,” said Naomi, “but I’ve got my own sources to protect. I didn’t learn it from Velvet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That never even crossed my mind,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Good,” said Naomi. “Because you know how loyal she is.”

“Velvet’s loyalty is not in question,” said Dr. Xivray. “She’s loyal to a fault.”

“You know, I’m right here,” I said.

“The fact that you’ve sussed out Garfield’s intentions,” said Dr. Xivray, ignoring my interjection, “places you in very grave danger.”

“I can take care of myself,” said Naomi.

“I’ll vouch for that,” I said.

“Garfield is very powerful,” said Dr. Xivray. “More powerful than you may realize. He’s not a man who will long tolerate anyone knowing his business.”

“Like yourself,” said Naomi.

“Yes,” said Dr. Xivray, “like myself. And three other Xivray Institute personnel.”

Naomi winked at me and ticked names off on her fingers: “Vivian Derrick, a.k.a. Velvet,” she said. “Gilbert Jefferson, a.k.a. Twitch. And David Thorne, a.k.a. Joe Cerebellum, but who really needs a new nickname, if you want my opinion.”

“You’ve done your homework,” said Dr. Xivray.

“I’d say I’ve even done the extra credit,” said Naomi. “And like I said, I can take care of myself.”

“Nevertheless,” said Dr. Xivray, “I’d feel better if you remained on Institute grounds until this affair is concluded.”

“Would that be the same Institute from which you were abducted less than a week ago?”

Dr. Xivray said nothing.

“Now, you know I can’t just write a story accusing the White House chief of staff of treason — and worse,” said Naomi.

“Of course not,” said Dr. Xivray.

“I mean, where’s your source?”

“We don’t have a source you can use,” I said.

“Well, what’s your evidence?” said Naomi.

I glanced at Dr. Xivray. She closed her eyes and nodded once.

“Our psychic read his mind,” I said.

Naomi laughed and laughed. (God, I love her laugh!) Dr. Xivray was silent.

“Well, that’s just great,” said Naomi, smiling at me. “Your psychic read his mind. I can’t print that. My editor will have a stroke.”

“His name’s Mr. Muskrat,” I said to Dr. Xivray. “Can you believe it?”

“He’s having a hard enough time believing my tales of Ms. Robot Brain over here,” said Naomi.

“That’s Dr. Robot Brain,” said Dr. Xivray.

Naomi barked a short, triumphant laugh. “Is that a confirmation?” she said.

“After we bring down Garfield,” said Dr. Xivray.

“How do you plan on doing that?” said Naomi. “And where do I fit in?”

Dr. Xivray looked at me. “Velvet?” she said.

“What?” I said. “How the hell should I know?”

“It was your idea to bring Naomi in,” said Dr. Xivray. “What did you have in mind?”

“I, uh… that is, um,” I said.

Naomi draped her arms around my shoulders and lightly touched her forehead to mine. “Don’t worry,” she said, gazing straight at me. “We’ll think of something.”

I admired her confidence. As for myself, I could think of nothing but her eyes.

Chapter 31

“The old switcheroo”

We were in the same position seconds later, Naomi’s forehead touching mine, when David and Twitch came barrelling into the room.

“Stop!” said Twitch. “Stop what you’re doing!”

“What the hell?” I said, startled.

“What is this?” said Dr. Xivray.

“Everyone just shut up,” said David (which I thought rude).

“Just hold on, please,” said Twitch (which was a little better).

“We had a thought,” said David.

“I had a thought,” said Twitch, “which you read without my permission.”

“Maybe we had the same thought simultaneously,” said David. “Did you ever think of that?”

“You ought to know,” said Twitch.

“This is exciting,” whispered Naomi, tearing her gaze away from me and straightening up in her chair. “Is it always so exciting around here?”

“Pretty much,” I said.

“Gentlemen,” said Dr. Xivray, raising her voice to cut through David’s and Twitch’s squabbling, “please wait outside until my meeting with Ms. Rogers is concluded.”

“No,” said Twitch, surprising me with his defiance.

“Afraid not,” said David.

“This is about your meeting with Naomi,” said Twitch.

“Directly related,” said David.

“Uh, we mean Ms. Rogers,” said Twitch.

“Naomi’s fine,” said Naomi, her warm hand cupping my upper arm.

Twitch flashed a nervous grin. “Naomi then,” he said.

“What was your thought?” said Dr. Xivray to Twitch.

“Don’t wait,” said Twitch and David simultaneously, and Twitch shot David an annoyed look.

“Don’t wait for what?” said Dr. Xivray.

“You said you want Naomi to wait to publish her story about you,” said Twitch.

“Hey, were you guys eavesdropping?” said Naomi.

David, ignoring Naomi’s question, said, “But what if, instead of waiting…”

“…you don’t wait,” said Twitch.

“You see what we did?” said David. “We switched it.”

“The old switcheroo,” said Twitch, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Switch switch,” said David.

(It struck me how in sync they seemed, like an old married couple telling an oft-told story, which seemed odd for two guys who supposedly didn’t like each other all that much.)

“Stop clowning around, both of you,” said Dr. Xivray. “Explain your reasoning at once.”

“What is the one advantage Garfield has on us?” said Twitch.

“I’d say he has more than one advantage,” I said.

“Fine,” said David, “but one big advantage, right, is that he knows your secret.”

“Can I take that as a confirmation?” said Naomi, pulling a pen from behind her ear.

“If we take that away from him,” said Twitch, “we level the playing field. We take away his power to out you.”

“Not to mention the fact,” I said, “that all the extra attention you’ll be getting when the story breaks will place you square in the spotlight, making it harder for him to get at you.”

“We’re gonna shine a light on you so bright,” said David, “there won’t be any shadows for Garfield to hide in.”

David and Twitch had been full of nervous energy, their words bouncing off of each other in crazy ricochets. But now they both fell silent, and the silence was like a sixth person in the room.

We all looked at Dr. Xivray, who stared back at us, impassive.

“This isn’t a new suggestion,” said Dr. Xivray. “This is exactly the position Velvet and Ms. Rogers have been taking.”

“Naomi’s fine,” said Naomi.

“Yeah, we know,” said David.

“We just wanted to show our support for the idea,” said Twitch, ducking his head towards the floor. We all understood how enormous a gesture he was making.

“We don’t know how the world will react,” said Dr. Xivray. “The government may not even consider me a person.”

“That’s crazy,” I said.

Dr. Xivray turned to me. “Is it, Velvet? Whose brain is buried beneath that oak tree on the Institute grounds?”

I saw Twitch close his eyes, his face pale.

“If that’s Dr. Niskayuna Xivray’s brain, then who am I? There’s no legal precedent for what I am.”

“Then we’ll set the precedent,” said Naomi. “New laws will be written.”

“Everyone’s going to want this technology,” said Dr. Xivray. “It’ll be seen as a gateway to immortality.”

“So let them have it,” said David. “You’ll make a fortune.”

Dr. Xivray directed a steady gaze at David. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” she said.

“I don’t know if it’s good or bad,” said David. “It’s an idea is all.”

“Billionaire narcissists will want to download themselves into newer, younger models, not understanding that it won’t be them in those new bodies, but rather machines with their memories.”

“Is that what you are,” said Naomi, “a machine with someone else’s memories?”

Dr. Xivray regarded Naomi. “I don’t think of myself that way,” she said, “but that’s literally what I am. And as much as I desire to keep existing, I don’t think the original Dr. Xivray was right to do what she did.”

“What?” said Twitch.

“What?” said David.

“What?” I said.

“What?” said Naomi.

(These were all said more or less simultaneously.)

“You heard me,” said Dr. Xivray. “Death is a necessary element of humankind’s advancement. We cannot have people recycling their consciousnesses for generation after generation. To allow such a thing would be to allow for the erosion of evolution itself.”

“So you’re saying you won’t share this technology with the world,” said Naomi.

“That is correct.”

“So you plan to announce that you’ve developed a technology to allow a dying person’s consciousness to continue existing indefinitely, but that you yourself will be the sole beneficiary of said technology?”

“It was never my intention to announce the existence of this technology to the world,” said Dr. Xivray, “but circumstances may force my hand. If so, then yes, that statement is also correct.”

We all thought about that for a while.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to go over very well,” said David.

“I don’t imagine it will,” said Dr. Xivray.

The room was silent for a moment.

“You’ll be denounced,” said David.

“You’ll be vilified,” said Twitch.

“You’ll be a pariah,” said Naomi.

(These were all said more or less simultaneously.)

“Now do you understand why I wished to keep this secret?” said Dr. Xivray.

“I’m not in the business of keeping secrets,” said Naomi. “My job is to uncover them.”

“Some secrets are best kept,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Not from my point of view,” said Naomi. “It’s the reporter’s obligation to report the truth, no matter how inconvenient that truth might be.

“If reporters had learned the details of Project Neptune before the fact,” said Dr. Xivray, “would they have been obligated to publish them?”

“The D-Day invasion,” I expositionally whispered, because I saw everyone’s puzzled expressions.

We all thought about that for a while.

“The fate of the world isn’t resting on your secret,” said Naomi.

Dr. Xivray arched an eyebrow, as I knew she would. “Isn’t it?” she said.

Chapter 32

“Mine is a wholly unique existence”

Scientist Reveals Her Artificial Brain, Duplicate of Deceased Creator’s

By Naomi Rogers

Famed polymath Dr. Niskayuna Xivray, director of the Xivray Institute and known for her scientific discoveries and globe-trotting adventures, revealed yesterday that her brain is actually a biocarbon processor, an artificial duplicate of the original Niskayuna Xivray’s mind, which succumbed to cancer a little over a year ago, Xivray Institute personnel claim.

The shocking revelation stunned many, including some of Xivray’s closest associates, as her secret had been known only to a very small inner circle of trusted colleagues, Xivray says. “This is an extremely private matter that has become by necessity a matter of public interest,” Xivray said.

“I’m still wrapping my mind around it, if you want to know the truth,” said longtime Xivray employee Eric “Little Odin” Murkowski, chief of security for the Xivray Institute. “I mean, I’ve seen some pretty weird stuff since I came to work here, but this takes the cake,” Murkowski added.

“In some ways, I am the same Dr. Xivray who died last year,” Xivray said. “I have the same body, and my mind, while artificial, has the same memories and thought patterns. Think of a person who has received an artificial heart to extend his or her life. This is similar. I received an artificial brain to extend my life.”

However, Dr. Xivray also took pains to draw distinctions between herself and her earlier version, whom she calls Xivray Prime. “Despite the immense similarities,” Xivray said, “I consider myself a separate entity from Xivray Prime.”

Dr. Xivray acknowledged the contradiction, but explained that it was difficult to find the proper frame of reference to describe her situation, as she is the only person on the planet to have experienced it. “Mine is a wholly unique existence,” Xivray said.

Dr. Xivray’s assertion of a distinct personhood raises a knotty legal question regarding her identity. She still uses the original Dr. Xivray’s driver’s license, social security number, and other identifying documents. “I’m willing to work with the government to establish a unique identity,” said Xivray, “but legally, we’re in uncharted territory.”

Before her alleged death, the original Dr. Xivray reportedly signed a secret document assigning control of the Xivray Institute and other assets over to her artificial successor. This document, once produced, will likely face scrutiny from government officials and legal scholars, and its legal value remains uncertain. In addition, many other questions arise in the wake of this revelation.

Some of those questions will be of concern to the White House, as Dr. Xivray has long been a known confidante of the president. It’s unclear if Xivray’s visits to the White House following the alleged transfer of her consciousness would be considered a breach of national security. Xivray reports that in her current incarnation, she’s capable of recording and playing back everything she sees and experiences. White House officials declined to comment on this story.

“My loyalty remains to the protection and preservation of the United States of America,” said Xivray, who hinted at troubling developments motivating her to reveal her secret. “I will vigorously fight any forces seeking to undermine the principles upon which this country was founded.”

When pressed, Dr. Xivray further explained, “All I can tell you is that all is not well in our government. These are especially perilous times. Our way of life is in jeopardy. My hope is that the revelation of my status will not distract from that fact.”

Dr. Xivray declined to elaborate further, but vowed to fight for the country until her “last breath.”

When asked about her use of the phrase “last breath,” Dr. Xivray admitted that her artificial brain does not require oxygen to function. “It’s just an expression,” Xivray said.

It wasn’t a bad story, all in all. There was a lot Naomi had to leave out, but we still considered it a shot across Garfield’s bow. It contained enough innuendo to at least make Garfield nervous, or so we believed.

Closer to home, on Xivray Institute grounds, the news exploded like a neutron bomb. Reactions ranged from shock to anger to outrage to disgust to cries of “I knew it all along!” (from Sergeant Bam Bam, whom no one believed). Regina “Nice Guy” Miranda was so personally offended that she packed up her worms and quit the Institute altogether. A few weeks later, we learned that she had opened a bait shop in San Francisco. York “Long Hat” Delmonte immediately began composing a rock opera about Dr. Xivray’s dual identity (an idea Dr. Xivray ultimately nixed, despite her long-stated policy of encouraging all Xivray Institute personnel to follow their muses). Vegas Patel asked for (and was granted) time off “to think.” He returned 24 hours later and $45,000 richer (he’d gone to Las Vegas, naturally), announcing himself to be “at peace” with the news. J.D. went on a baking spree the likes of which the Institute had never seen. Baking has always been therapeutic for him, this we knew, but his need for therapy must have been intense because in 48 hours, he produced cookies and bread and cakes and pies and cinnamon rolls and eclairs and on and on. We gorged ourselves on his therapy, and still he baked on, unwilling to discuss his reaction to the news but clearly deeply affected by it.

The only person on Institute grounds who seemed unphased by the revelation was Fernando Islander, still a fugitive in hiding, who had had no relationship with the original Dr. Xivray. He’d been spending an inordinate amount of his time in his room, binge-watching shows on Netflix, and this revelation did little to rouse him from his increasingly somnambulant existence. “Yeah, that makes sense,” was all he had to say when he heard the news, before firing up the next episode in his queue.

“We’ve got to get that guy a pardon,” said David. “Dude needs to get some fresh air.”

“Let’s save the world first,” said Twitch, “then worry about a pardon for Fernando.”

“The world will always need saving,” said David. “But there’s only so much Gilmore Girls a guy should have to watch in one sitting.”

On the saving the world front, good ideas were thin on the ground. The best idea we had was to keep the brain-downloading technology out of the hands of McKinley Garfield. Given what we knew of the powers at his disposal (both psychic and governmental), that seemed a monumental enough task. However, for the time being at least, all was quiet.

But not for long.

Chapter 33

“I bought a cruller”

What happened next was that Dr. Xivray was arrested. We were expecting an action along those lines, of course, but what surprised us was the government agency performing the arrest, U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), as well as the charge: Dr. Xivray was being detained as an undocumented immigrant.

“Immigrant from where?” she wanted to know.

The two ICE agents who had entered Institute grounds to take Dr. Xivray into custody didn’t have an answer to that one. One of them was tall and gangly, his ill-fitting suit coat barely reaching his wrists. “Your Social Security number isn’t valid,” he said, somewhat sullenly, as if that fact justified his actions.

“Even if that’s true,” said Dr. Xivray, “to what country would I be deported?”

They didn’t have an answer for that one either. The gangly agent’s partner, a bodybuilder-type with a neck thicker than his head, said, “You will remain in ICE custody until your citizenship can be determined.”

“This is nuts,” I said.

“It’s criminal is what it is,” said Twitch.

“It’s McKinley Garfield,” said David.

The ICE agents didn’t have anything to say to any of that. Silently, they led a very calm Dr. Xivray off the grounds in handcuffs. “Call my lawyer,” she said to us as the agents guided her into the back of an unmarked white van. Before we could respond, the van had sped away.

“What do we do now?” said Twitch.

“You heard her,” said David. “Call her lawyer.”

Dr. Xivray’s lawyer was named Marian Bolivar, a short, curly-haired chain smoker who had a tendency to talk fast and loud.  She wore a Bluetooth phone earpiece as if it were a permanent body modification, so you could never be sure if she was talking to you or to somebody on the other end of a phone call.

“Tell me what happened,” she said. I was in her office, seated across from her, an enormous oak desk creating a gulf between us. The desk was covered in legal papers stacked in precarious, Seussian piles ready to topple at the slightest disturbance.

“Dr. Xivray was arrested for being an illegal immigrant,” I said, and Marian Bolivar held up a silencing hand. (She hadn’t been talking to me, apparently.)

“Don’t tell me what I already know,” said Marian Bolivar.

“Sorry,” I said, and she glared at me. (She still wasn’t talking to me.)

“I’m not an idiot,” said Marian Bolivar. “You’re talking to me like I’m an idiot.”

I said nothing.

“I’ll get that kicked so fast, your head will spin,” said Marion Bolivar. “The judge might decide to lock you up just on general principle.”

I said nothing.

“Do you want to know what happens next?” said Marion Bolivar.

I said nothing.

Marion reached into the space between us and snapped her fingers twice. “Hey, you,” she said. “Do you want to know what happens next?”

I blinked. Apparently, her phone call had ended, and now she was talking to me.

“Yes?” I said.

“I’m requesting a summary judgment this afternoon,” said Marion. “I’d like the judge to throw this thing out before it even comes to trial.”

“That makes sense,” I said.

“The charges are absurd on their face, and quite frankly, they reek of desperation.”

“I agree,” I said, and Marion did the silencing hand thing again. She was back on the phone. Miserably, I wondered why I had been roped into this particular errand. David had argued that it couldn’t be him because his natural abilities would cause Marion Bolivar to inadvertently violate attorney-client privilege. (Whatever.) Twitch also had a reason why he couldn’t do it, but I’d forgotten what it was (and so had Twitch, when I asked him about it later). In any case, here I was, struggling to communicate with this diminutive firebrand, feeling even more awkward than usual.

“What time?” said Marion, grabbing a pencil from a stash in her desk drawer. She scribbled something on the corner of a Post-it note, in the process dislodging an avalanche of papers off the edge of her desk. She took no apparent notice of this. “Can you be ready for three?” she said.

After a brief pause, Marion snapped her fingers in front of my face again. “I’m talking to you,” she said.

“Okay, how would I know that?”

Marion rolled her eyes and stood up. Her chair was adjusted to such a height that she was exactly as tall standing up as she was sitting down. “We’ll appear before the judge at three o’clock. With any luck, the Doc will be able to walk out of that courtroom and get a ride home with you.”

“I’ll make sure Splendid Audrey’s there,” I said.

“Yeah, I don’t know who that is,” said Marion. She walked into the hallway. I wasn’t sure if she expected me to follow her, but she was halfway down the hall before I cleared the threshold of her office. Was I supposed to turn off the lights? Shut the door? It wasn’t clear, and Marion was now outside, on the sidewalk. I could still see her through the glass front doors of her office building. She was still talking, perhaps thinking I was right behind her, or perhaps on a new phone conversation. She took three confident steps towards the street and held up her hand. Seconds later, she was safely ensconced in the back of a taxicab, which sped away to parts unknown.

“I guess I’ll lock up her office,” I said to no one, as I turned off the lights and gently shut the door. I heard the button lock snap into place as the door snicked shut. “I hope she has her keys with her,” I said.

At three o’clock, Splendid Audrey dropped me off in front of the courthouse. “I’ll meet you inside,” she said. “I’m just gonna go park it.”

“There’s a lot across the street,” I told her.

She delivered a level gaze in my direction. “I don’t pay for parking,” she said. I knew that Splendid Audrey considered it a point of pride, her ability to find free parking spots. I held my hands up in supplication and allowed her to begin her quest. Then I turned and entered the courthouse.

“There you are,” said Marion a few minutes later, marching towards me with a purpose I found slightly frightening. “We have a problem.”

“Are you talking to me?” I said.

“Who else would I be talking to?” she said.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said, “but sometimes you are.”

“Sometimes I am what?” said Marion, confused.

“Talking to someone else,” I said.

“Dr. Xivray isn’t here,” she said.

“What do you mean? Where is she?”

“Okay, I don’t know how to answer the first question,” said Marion. “My statement was fairly self-explanatory.”

“Fine, fine,” I said.

“As for the second question,” said Marion, “no one is saying. No one’s answering my calls.”

“What do we do now?” I said.

“We go talk to the judge,” said Marion.

Splendid Audrey entered, holding a small white bag. “I parked in the parking lot of a 24-hour bakery around the block. Customers only.” She held up the bag. “I bought a cruller.”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” said Marion.

“What?” said Splendid Audrey, and Marion held up her silencing hand.

“She’s not talking to us,” I explained, gesturing to Marion’s Bluetooth earpiece.

“Let’s go,” said Marion, turning briskly and marching down the courthouse corridor towards the judge’s chambers.

We watched her go for a few seconds before I said, “Okay, that time she was talking to us.”

We hurried to catch up with her.

“Your honor,” said Marion, “this is an egregious abuse of prosecutorial power. The fact that I have not been given an opportunity to consult with my client is outrageous!”

We were in the judge’s chambers, Marion, Splendid Audrey, and I, along with a nervous-looking prosecutor. The judge’s name was Cornelius Uncle, and he looked decidedly displeased.

Judge Uncle turned to the prosecutor. “How about it, counselor? Does the prosecution have a rebuttal?”

The prosecutor, whose name I never learned, coughed nervously into his fist. “The government can hold the suspect for up to 48 hours before bringing charges,” he said.

Marion made a show of checking her watch, a big, bulky, expensive-looking thing. “Your honor, Dr. Xivray was taken into custody six and a half hours ago. Can you please advise my colleague here that in forty-one and a half hours and one second, if I still have not had a chance to confer with my client, there will be legal hell to pay the likes of which he’s never even contemplated?”

The judge paused before speaking to the prosecutor. “Counselor, be so advised that in forty-one and a half hours and one second, if Ms. Bolivar here has not had a chance to confer with her client, there will be legal hell to pay the likes of which you’ve never even contemplated.”

The prosecutor swallowed. “Understood, your honor,” he muttered.

“Then we have an accord,” said Judge Uncle, smiling for the first time. “Now, please: Everybody out of my chambers.”

We all filed out of the judge’s chambers. The prosecutor scurried away down the hall, not even breaking stride when Marion called after him, “The clock is ticking. Better get a move on!”

“What do we do now?” said Splendid Audrey.

“Now?” said Marion. “Now, we wait.” She checked her watch. “Forty-one hours, twenty eight minutes, and… three… two… one… zero seconds.”

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” I said.

“Have you tried yoga?” said Marion.

Startled, I said, “No. No, I haven’t.”

She held up her hand, and I realized too late that she was again talking to somebody else.

Chapter 34

“Tell me about your childhood”

Forty-one hours, twenty eight minutes later…

“Your honor,” Marion was saying, “the forty-eight hours are up, but the prosecution has once again failed to produce Dr. Xivray. I would ask that your honor urge the prosecution to release Dr. Xivray immediately.”

Judge Uncle frowned. “What about it, counselor?” he said to the prosecutor.

The prosecutor cleared his throat. He seemed more sure of himself today. “Your honor,” he said, “the entity we have in custody is not Dr. Niskayuna Xivray. Dr. Niskayuna Xivray, by her own admission, died last year.”

“Your honor!” Marion interjected. “The prosecutor’s statement is absurd on its face. ‘By her own admission’? How can one admit to having died?”

“I’ll allow it’s a unique situation,” said the prosecutor, “but these are the facts. The entity we have in custody is not a human being at all, but rather a computer simulation of a human being housed in the corpse of the departed Dr. Xivray.”

“She’s not a corpse!” I exclaimed, and Judge Uncle shot me a warning look.

“As such,” continued the prosecutor as if I hadn’t spoken, “the entity in our custody has no recognizable rights under the Constitution at all.”

“Your honor,” said Marion, “could you please instruct the prosecution to stop referring to Dr. Xivray as ‘the entity in our custody’?”

Judge Uncle leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He let out a long sigh. “This is a messy one,” he said, eyes still closed. “I hate the messy ones.”

We sat in silence for a moment. “Your honor?” said Marion, more quietly than she usually spoke, and he looked up.

“Counselor,” he said to the prosecutor, “you will produce ‘the entity in your custody’ no later than five p.m. today. I want to talk to her face to face.”

“Your honor, that will be quite impossible,” said the prosecutor.

“Oh, I believe in miracles,” said Judge Uncle, “and I advise you to do the same. Because if you don’t, I’ll hold you in contempt until you do produce her.”

“It’s not a ‘her,’ your honor,” said the prosecutor. “It’s a program.”

“I’d like to put that assertion to the test,” said Judge Uncle, “with a one-on-one conversation with the defendant.”

“Oh my,” I said.

All eyes in the room turned towards me. I reddened, not having meant to speak out loud.

“Something?” said Judge Uncle.

“No, nothing,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“What is it?” said Judge Uncle.

“It’s just that… I realized: You’re going to perform the Turing Test on Dr. Xivray.”

Judge Uncle frowned. “The Turing Test? Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

Judge Uncle made a show of checking his watch. “Five p.m. is in only three hours,” he said to the prosecutor. “If you’ve got to make transportation arrangements for your prisoner, I suggest you get to it.”

The prosecutor, looking enormously beleaguered, stood to leave the room, pulling a cell phone from his inner pocket as he exited.

“The Turing Test,” said Judge Uncle, more to himself than to me. “I’m gonna look that up on Google.”

Three hours later…

Transcript of Judge Cornelius Uncle’s interview with Dr. Niskayuna Xivray in the judge’s chambers:

CU: Please state your name.

NX: Niskayuna Xivray.

CU: I gather you’re famous. I mean, even before this revelation that has everyone so vexed.

NX: Some of my endeavors have garnered some press attention, it’s true.

CU: You’ll forgive me. I’m not up on my celebrities.

NX: No apology necessary. And I wouldn’t call myself a celebrity.

CU: How are you feeling?

NX: Aggrieved.

CU: Do you believe you’ve been mistreated?

NX: I feel my arrest was inappropriate at best, treasonous at worst.

CU: Treasonous? Explain.

NX: I’ve no doubt that my arrest was orchestrated by White House Chief of Staff McKinley Garfield, who seeks to prevent me from foiling his plan to bring about a global catastrophe and rebuild the world to his liking.

CU: …

NX: What is it, your honor?

CU: This interview is not going as I expected.

NX: What were you expecting?

CU: I looked up the Turing Test while I was waiting for the prosecution to produce you. There’s a question I’m supposed to ask you: Which is bigger, a train or my pinkie toe?

NX: And what will my answer to that question tell you?

CU: It’s supposed to tell me whether you’re a person or a computer simulation of a person.

NX: What have you concluded?

CU: I don’t know. You haven’t answered the question yet.

NX: If I answer the question, would that help you decide?

CU: I don’t honestly know. Let’s give it a shot.

NX: Fine. A train is larger than your pinkie toe.

CU: How can you state that definitively, even though you can’t see a train at the moment, nor my pinkie toe, for that matter?

NX: I can surmise based on past experience of trains and pinkie toes. But so could a computer, if fed the correct data. You must base your conclusions on how I respond to the data. Also, if your pinkie toe were bigger than a train, I suspect you’d be quite the celebrity yourself.

CU: Was that a joke?

NX: I do make one from time to time.

CU: Tell me, Dr. Xivray, what’s the difference between the you that was and the you that is?

NX: That’s a very good question, your honor.

CU: Thank you.

NX: There’s a popular misconception that every cell in the human body is replaced over the course of seven years, so that we’re literally not the same people we were when we were born. That’s not entirely true. The neurons in the cerebral cortex are never replaced. Every cerebral cortex neuron currently firing in you was firing on the day you were born, and any that have died in the meantime have stayed dead, not to be replaced. If there can be said to be a continuity of “self,” that continuity resides in the cerebral cortex. In my case, of course, all of my original cerebral cortex neurons are dead, and that which has replaced them is entirely artificial. I’ve found that my artificial brain is more efficient in some ways. For example, I can recall word-for-word everything that’s been said in my presence from the moment I “came online” (for lack of a better term), and I can recite pi to several thousand places. But in other ways, this new brain of mine struggles. I still have deeply felt emotions, but those emotions can feel foreign to me at times, as if they’re being experienced by someone else. I sometimes feel like a stranger in the kingdom of my own mind.

CU: What do you think of the government’s assertion that you are not a person?

NX: I disagree with it, obviously.

CU: Tell me why.

NX: …

CU: Dr. Xivray?

NX: Have I not eyes?

CU: Excuse me?

NX: Have I not hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?

CU: Okay, I see where this is going.

NX: Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a person is?

CU: If I prick you, do you not bleed?

NX: Ah! I’m pleased you get the reference.

CU: The Merchant of Venice, Act III, scene I. I minored in English Lit. But you know, the judge does not rule in Shylock’s favor.

NX: Well, she does, but with a devastating caveat. And Portia is not a judge.

CU: You’re right. That always bugged me.

NX: Technically, she had no authority in the matter.

CU: Correct. But I do.

NX: And what have you decided?

CU: …

NX: Your honor?

CU: Tell me about your childhood.

NX: My father was a professor. My mother an archaeologist. We had a very large library. I used to spend hours in there, reading everything I could get my hands on. It was my favorite place in the world.

CU: Were your parents aware of your… status before the newspaper story broke? Do they grieve for the daughter who died last year?

NX: My parents are no longer living.

CU: My apologies. How did they die?

NX: They were murdered when I was fourteen. A home invasion gone wrong. The robbers stabbed them with kitchen knives.

CU: Were you home?

NX: Yes. I was hiding in the dumbwaiter. I heard them when they…

CU: …

NX: …

CU: Were the murderers caught?

NX: No.

CU: …

NX: …

CU: Did you go into foster care?

NX: I did not. I applied for and received emancipated minor status.

CU: I see. To become emancipated, a minor must demonstrate a legal way to make money. What did you do to support yourself?

NX: I designed the Xivray Drive, a new kind of engine used in rocket ships. I sold it to NASA, where it is still in use today. This secured my fortunes.

CU: Right, I should have guessed that. Do you miss your parents?

NX: Of course. I’ll miss them forever.

CU: Thank you, Dr. Xivray. It’s been very interesting talking to you. I’m going to recommend your immediate release.

NX: Thank you, your honor. I take it I passed your Turing Test?

CU: Indeed you have, Dr. Xivray. You’re as human as I.

End of interview.

It took most of the night to process Dr. Xivray’s release. Shortly before dawn, Splendid Audrey drove us back to the Institute. We were met at the gate by Little Odin. Splendid Audrey pulled to a stop beside him and lowered the window. Little Odin bent down to look at all of us.

“We have a problem,” he said.

Chapter 35

“There’s nothing in the protocol for that”

“Do you know what the football is?” said Little Odin.

We were in the conference room, Little Odin’s laptop connected to an overhead projector, which was currently projecting onto the wall a recent AP photo of the president on his way to a public function. Dr. Xivray, Twitch, David, and I sat facing the display while Little Odin sat with his back to the larger image on the wall, hunched over his laptop as he worked the slideshow he had created.

“Yes,” said Dr. Xivray, in answer to Little Odin’s question, “assuming you’re using that term in the context of this picture.”

“I am,” said Little Odin.

“Help me out,” said Twitch. “I don’t follow sports.”

“The football is the briefcase that contains the nuclear launch codes,” said David. “It goes wherever the president goes, so he can authorize a nuclear strike from wherever he happens to be.”

“Thank you, David,” said Dr. Xivray.

“I didn’t know either,” David said to Twitch, “but Little Odin was thinking it really hard.”

Dr. Xivray sighed.

“Sorry,” David murmured.

“The football is typically carried by a military aide, who must be in arm’s reach of the president at all times,” said Little Odin. “Because he is required to be so close, whoever’s carrying the football usually appears in news photos of the president.” Little Odin pointed to the screen. “This is from two months ago. That’s presidential aide Billy Friendly holding the football.”

We all looked at the screen, which depicted the president walking towards his helicopter, waving to a crowd of onlookers. The aforementioned aide, Billy Friendly, strode half a step behind the president in perfect synchronicity, clutching the football (in reality a bulky leather satchel) under his arm.

Little Odin moved on to the next slide, which showed the president entering a Broadway theater, Billy Friendly once again at his side, still holding the football. “This is from six weeks ago,” said Little Odin. He selected the next slide (“a month ago”), which again showed the president out in public, Billy Friendly again at his side with the football. Same with the next (“three weeks ago”), and the next (“two weeks ago”), and the next (“last week”).

“What is the point of this?” said Twitch.

“It’s coming,” said David, who, as usual, was using telepathy to stay ahead of everyone. “What?” he said, when he saw Dr. Xivray frowning at him. “I can’t help it!”

“Here’s the point,” said Little Odin. He moved to the next slide, which showed the president entering an ornate hotel lobby, a cluster of men walking alongside him. One of those men was Billy Friendly, but unlike all previous photos, he was not holding the football. He seemed irritated and bewildered by that fact (to the extent that it’s possible to discern a person’s opinion from a newspaper photograph). Another man, a few steps away from Billy Friendly, was holding the football. We all recognized him immediately as McKinley Garfield.

“Uh oh,” said Twitch.

“You said it,” said Little Odin. “This picture was taken very early this morning, about twenty minutes before you returned to the Institute.”

“Where?” said Dr. Xivray.

“Don’t you recognize that lobby?” said David. “It’s the Plaza — the same hotel where the Correspondents’ Dinner was held.”

“What’s he doing there today?” I said.

“He’s hosting an international conference,” said Little Odin, who’d done his research.

“Seven world leaders are attending,” said Twitch, tapping his thigh, evidently doing his research as he spoke. “Not all of them our allies.”

“Whatever’s happening is happening tonight,” said David, picking up on other people’s research via his usual mind-reading.

Dr. Xivray turned to me. “Velvet,” she said, “can you ask Fernando Islander to join us? His familiarity with the Plaza might prove useful.”

I stood up from the table.

“I think he’s on season seven of Gilmore Girls,” said David. “By far the worst, trust me. He’ll be happy for the distraction.”

I walked into the hall, down towards Fernando Islander’s room.

David’s watched all of Gilmore Girls?

Fernando Islander was unshaven and bleary-eyed when he answered his door. “Hiya, Fernando,” I said. “How are Lorelai and Rory?”

“I’ve moved on to Jessica Jones,” said Fernando.

“The Doc would like your assistance,” I said.

“With what?” said Fernando.

“Saving the world,” I said.

Later, on the jet, Little Odin explained the protocols of the nuclear football. “The president verifies his identity using a special code he carries with him at all times. It’s printed on a little plastic card. The folks in the Secret Service call it ‘the biscuit.’”

“They like their cute little nicknames, don’t they?” said David.

“Fun fact,” said Twitch. “When President Reagan was shot, his biscuit was found unattended in his shoe after his surgery.”

“I don’t know how fun that fact is,” said Splendid Audrey, who was joining us for local ground transportation support, if needed (as it undoubtedly would be).

“Only the president can order a nuclear strike,” said Little Odin. “His order must be verified by the Secretary of Defense.”

“Is the Secretary of Defense at the hotel?” I said.

“He’s scheduled to arrive there tonight,” said Twitch, his fingers a blur against his leg.

“When tonight?” This was Dr. Xivray’s voice, coming over the loudspeaker from the cockpit. She either had the passenger area wired for sound, or she was privy to the conversation via her usual electronic communication with Twitch. Either way, the effect was unsettling.

“Nine o’clock,” said Twitch.

“That’s a little over five hours from now,” said Splendid Audrey.

“Thanks, we needed that,” said David, sarcastically.

“The secretary has no veto power over the order,” said Little Odin, pushing through the bickering. “He must comply with the president’s directive. His authentication is required only to verify that it’s actually the president issuing the order.”

“What if the president is under the influence of a telepathic madman bent on world domination?” said Twitch.

“There’s nothing in the protocol for that,” said Little Odin.

There were other Xivray Institute personnel on the jet: Sergeant Bam Bam, Fernando Islander, Long Hat Delmonte, and myself — all of us keeping quiet as we contemplated the enormity of what was happening. Naomi was with us as well, in the seat next to mine, along for the ride as part of her exclusivity arrangement with Dr. Xivray. She held my hand during takeoff and remained quiet during the flight, jotting an occasional note in her notepad.

“What are we going to do when we get there?” I said, wanting to break the silence, but not expecting a definitive answer. Nevertheless, a definitive answer came crackling over the loudspeaker in Dr. Xivray’s unmistakable voice.

“We’re going to kidnap the president,” she said, as Naomi wrote furiously in her notebook.

“Huh,” said David.

Chapter 36

“This is my life”

Dr. Xivray’s voice came over the plane’s loudspeaker as she taxied the jet to a stop. “Splendid Audrey, upon deplaning, please secure a getaway car, to employ the argot of the criminal class in which we find ourselves, however inadvertently.”

“Gosh, she really is a computer, isn’t she?” Naomi whispered to me.

“No, she talked like that before,” I said.

“She really did,” said Splendid Audrey, who’d overheard.

“How much time do we got?” said Sergeant Bam Bam.

“The secretary arrives in three hours,” said Little Odin.

“Let’s saddle up,” said Dr. Xivray, emerging from the cockpit. (She sometimes slips into cowboy lingo, a baffling quirk.)

Whenever I fly, I expect, want, a well-lit, smoothly carpeted airport corridor to telescope out to me, sealing me securely against the outside elements; but Dr. Xivray’s jet is too small for such niceties, and so we were forced to descend a narrow metal staircase, railless and terrifying, to the asphalt below.

Striding across the tarmac towards the airport, I was vaguely aware that this was our hero shot. This would be the slow motion sequence that appeared in all the trailers, if this were a movie instead of real life. Naomi grinned at me, perhaps picking up on my fleeting frivolity from the expression on my face.

“Does everyone know their assignments?” said Little Odin as we reached an actual building at last.

“Wait, I don’t,” I said. “When did we talk about that?”

“You’ll ride with me,” said Little Odin, walking purposefully towards the car rental counter.

I hurried to catch up with him, Naomi still at my side. “I don’t understand,” I said. “When did we talk about this?”

“You dozed a little on the flight,” said Naomi.

“I did?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Little Odin.

“Where’s everyone else going?” I said, as the team scattered in various directions across the airport floor.

“Everyone has their assignments,” said Naomi.

“God, how long did I sleep for?”

“You’re cute when you’re sleeping, did you know that?” said Naomi.

“How would I?”

“Are you two ready?” said Little Odin, holding up the rental car key.

“That was fast,” said Naomi.

“I feel like everything’s happening fast,” I said. “Where are we even going?”

“Come on,” said Little Odin.

The rental car turned out to be a van. Little Odin got behind the wheel, and Naomi and I sat in the back. No one rode shotgun.

“Where are we going?” I asked again.

“We’re assuming our place in the operation,” said Little Odin, maneuvering the van out of the airport parking lot.

“Are you here as a participant or an observer?” I asked Naomi.

“Observer, always,” said Naomi. “I’m embedded.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along when we’re all tried for treason,” said Little Odin.

“Oh, you,” said Naomi.

Little Odin was a skillful driver — not as skillful as Splendid Audrey, but still highly competent. He drove with practiced efficiency, slightly faster than the cars around us, passing and weaving through the traffic with ease. After about twenty minutes of driving, we arrived at our destination, an abandoned warehouse at the outskirts of the city.

“What is this place?” I said.

“It’s an abandoned warehouse at the outskirts of the city,” said Little Odin.

“Ha ha,” I said.

“Hey, you asked,” he said.

“What happens now?” I said.

“Now, we wait,” said Little Odin.

“Anyone want to sing camp songs?” said Naomi. (This was ignored.)

“How long do we wait for?” I said. (I was feeling particularly useless and ignorant on this mission.)

“For as long as it takes,” said Little Odin, perhaps the most predictable of answers in the history of predictable answers.

“How long do you think that will be?” said Naomi, and I was grateful for the company in the useless question brigade.

“At least an hour,” said Little Odin, settling back in the driver’s seat. He shut his eyes, something I’d seen him do on missions before. It’s not sleep, exactly. Part of his brain is still highly alert to his surroundings. But it’s a respite of sorts, a graying out of thought until thought is needed. I’d never be able to replicate it, so instead I fretted. Occasionally, Naomi took my hand, which dampened the fretting without ever completely distinguishing it.

“This is exciting, isn’t it?” said Naomi.

“This is my life,” I said, and realized I was smiling.

Meanwhile…

We’ve come to a part of this story which I have been asked not to relay in detail, despite the presidential pardons afforded to nearly everyone involved in this affair. The reason I won’t be relaying this part is not for my own protection, or that of my comrades, but rather for the protection of the office of the president of the United States. As Peter Hornblatt, director of the Secret Service, explained to me, to reveal what happened at the Plaza in detail would be to expose certain policies and procedures of the president’s protection unit, which could potentially compromise the safety of current and future presidents. Suffice it to say that the first wave of Operation Fetch (as Dr. Xivray had apparently dubbed the mission; I really had slept on the plane) was a spectacular success, with Dr. Xivray and her team spiriting the president away from the hotel into Splendid Audrey’s waiting getaway car. This was accomplished with the help of Fernando Islander’s intimate knowledge of the Plaza’s layout, Twitch’s hacking expertise, Long Hat Delmonte’s robotics knowledge (and the Plaza’s reliance on robot vacuum cleaners), David’s skills in psychic coercion, and Dr. Xivray’s archery prowess — but you’ll have to use your imagination to piece together exactly how it was done. There was no loss of life, but several Secret Service agents did find themselves with headaches and embarrassment (which gave us a twinge of guilt), and McKinley Garfield found himself locked in a supply closet for 15 minutes with an arrow in his butt (which did not).

Three blocks away from the hotel, the extraction team switched vehicles, still unpursued, but mindful of the security cameras outside the hotel that would have captured images of the first car. Sergeant Bam Bam had been waiting, and he ferried them away towards the outskirts of the city.

Ten minutes later, they reached us, traveling in a large, nondescript car-colored car, Sergeant Bam Bam at the wheel, Splendid Audrey and Dr. Xivray in front with him, and Fernando Islander, David, and Long Hat jammed in the back with the president, who appeared to be in some sort of trance, staring forward blankly at the back of Splendid Audrey’s head.

David was the first to emerge from the car. He tossed a bundled package to me. It was heavier than it looked, and I fumbled with it awkwardly.

“Careful with that,” said David. “You hold in your hands the power to destroy the world.”

“Is this…” I began.

“You got it,” said David. “It’s the football. Garfield didn’t want to give it up, but after getting shot in the butt with an arrow, he relaxed his stance.”

“Oh, my God,” Naomi whispered.

“Would you like to know the log-in password?” said David. “I plucked it right out of the president’s mind.”

I felt a little sick.

As quickly as we could, we ushered ourselves, the football, and the somnambulant president into the van, Splendid Audrey once again behind the wheel.

“Let’s go,” said Dr. Xivray, and Splendid Audrey floored it.

Chapter 37

“Piece of cake”

Much to our surprise, the story of the president’s sudden disappearance did not come out. TVs did not suddenly crackle with “We interrupt this program” or “special alert” or “country in crisis” (complete with theme music and logo). No harried anchors appeared onscreen, crinkly lines on their foreheads and fancy graphics displayed behind them, endlessly pontificating on the treasonous act that had just been committed. “This is a dark day in our nation’s history,” no pundit intoned, before launching into a tirade that explained why the president’s abduction only served to prove the political position the pundit already held.

Frankly, that’s what we had been expecting, but the White House, no doubt under the coercive direction (and possible psychic influence) of McKinley Garfield, had produced an effective cover story: The president had fallen ill with an unidentified illness during the conference at the hotel. Nothing serious, it seemed, but because so many heads of state were in attendance, the possibility of a foreign-born disease was being investigated. The CDC, in what a spokesperson assured the public was an abundance of caution, had quarantined the hotel, with the president still in it. No one was allowed in or out, which was keeping the press at bay, at least for now. The stock market took a slight downturn at the news, and the late-night comedians had a bit of fun with it, but nobody was questioning the cover story. It was unclear to us what the mood would be in a week’s time, assuming we hadn’t resolved the situation by then. We knew that the White House staff must be panicking behind the scenes, but an outwardly calm press secretary issued regular (and completely false) updates on the president’s condition from the White House briefing room (“The president is steadily improving and is in regular contact with his advisors to discuss the business of running this great country”), and none of the reporters in attendance seemed the least bit suspicious. In fact, the only reporter on the planet who seemed to have the slightest clue what was actually happening with the president was Naomi, who had a front-row seat to the abduction, but she was keeping it under her hat for the time being. “I can’t wait to see what happens!” she said to me.

Honestly, Naomi’s enthusiasm stood in marked contrast to everyone else’s tension. Those of us on the extraction team, brimming with agitated energy and frayed nerves, were holed up in a safe house, a building technically owned by the Xivray Institute, but with an ownership paper trail so Byzantine no one would be able to trace it all the way back to us. I will not be revealing its exact location, as the house is still in use for various Xivray endeavors. Suffice it to say that it’s a rambling, one-story structure with not enough bathrooms that sits nestled deep in cattle country, its only neighbors the occasional roaming cow, listlessly lowing in the field surrounding the house. (Out of tense boredom, Long Hat actually started naming them.)

We were all contemplating our futures. If this mission did not end well (and there was still a strong likelihood that it wouldn’t), we could all be facing extremely stiff prison sentences. “At least I’ll catch up on my reading,” Splendid Audrey quipped, though the only one to laugh was Naomi.

“I want my prison nickname to be The Beast,” said Long Hat. (Nobody at all laughed at that one.)

The president, who had been placed in a compliant trance by David, was docile enough but understandably befuddled. “What am I doing here?” he’d ask, blinking in confusion at his surroundings. “You’re safe,” we’d reply, which wasn’t really an answer, but it seemed to satisfy him, if only for a few minutes, after which he’d blink and ask, “What am I doing here?” all over again. We needed some forward momentum.

While some on Team Xivray passed the time playing cards or watching the occasional unconcerned TV news update regarding the president’s fictional illness, Dr. Xivray and David urgently discussed the possibilities of freeing the president from McKinley Garfield’s psychic influence.

“Garfield’s ‘fingerprints’ are deeply embedded in the big guy’s noggin,” David told Dr. Xivray. “There’s not a thought in his head that doesn’t have a McKinley Garfield thought right alongside it, hovering over it like an angry black cloud.”

“Seems more like a prison guard than a cloud,” said Naomi.

“What, are you an expert in metaphor?” said David.

“Well, I am a writer,” said Naomi.

“Regardless of the metaphor,” said Dr. Xivray, defusing David’s nonsense as only she can, “can you free the president’s brain from McKinley Garfield’s influence?”

“Their thoughts are so intertwined,” said David, “it will be like trying to extract individual strands out of a plate of spaghetti.”

“Without disturbing the rest of the pasta,” said Dr. Xivray.

“That’s right,” agreed David. “Without disturbing the rest of the pasta.”

“We don’t want to give the president brain damage,” I said.

“Right,” said David. “What’s that old expression: ‘The operation was a success, but the patient died.’ This will have to be done very delicately.”

“So you can do it?” said Dr. Xivray.

“…”

“David?”

“I should have a nickname,” said David. “How about Mental Man?”

“Not Joe Cerebellum?” I said, recalling his old stage name.

“Too hard to spell,” said David. “Is it two r’s or two l’s?”

“Do we have to do this now?” said Dr. Xivray, exasperated. (David seems to be the only member of Team Xivray who can easily exasperate her.)

“You can’t give yourself a nickname,” said Twitch, who’d been listening. “You think I’d be called Twitch if you could?”

In the corner, Naomi was furiously writing notes in her notebook.

“Let’s talk about this later,” said Dr. Xivray. “David, can you do it?”

“…”

“David?”

“…”

“Mental Man?” said Dr. Xivray with a sigh.

David (a.k.a. Mental Man) smiled hugely. “Piece of cake,” he said.

Chapter 38

“Okay, maybe not exactly a piece of cake”

“Okay, maybe not exactly a piece of cake,” said David, twelve hours later. Seated across from him was the president, who was currently smiling dreamily into space and meowing like a cat. “Meow meow meow,” said the president, licking the back of his hand and rubbing his head with it.

“I can totally fix that,” David assured us.

Dr. Xivray, visibly agitated, said, “Do it now, David.”

“Mental Man,” said David.

“Yeah, that’s never gonna catch on,” I advised him.

“We’ll see,” said David.

“We cannot have the leader of the free world meowing like a cat!” shouted Dr. Xivray. I’d never seen her so flustered.

“I told you, I can fix it,” said David.

“Meow meow meow,” said the president.

Two hours later, David had the president speaking complete sentences, sort of. “I am the big leader man in fancy pants,” said the president. He was still licking the back of his hand, but he wasn’t meowing anymore.

“This is unacceptable, David,” said Dr. Xivray.

“I’m not done,” said David. (I noted that he was no longer asking her to call him Mental Man.) This is a very delicate procedure.”

“Pudding!” exclaimed the president. It was unclear if he was requesting pudding or simply using the word as an exclamation.

“That’s right, Mr. President,” said David in his most soothing voice. “Pudding.”

Most of the crew had drifted away to crash on beds and couches, but Naomi, Dr. Xivray, David, and I remained awake as David continued his efforts to restore the president’s mental autonomy, a process that seemed to entail David cupping the president’s face in his hands, squeezing his own eyes shut extremely tightly, and rapidly moving his lips as if silently reading.

“Pudding!” the president shouted again.

“This is going well, don’t you think?” Naomi whispered to me.

“I do not,” I said, glancing nervously at Dr. Xivray to try to determine if she had heard, but I could read nothing in Dr. Xivray’s stony expression.

Four hours later…

The president said, “Mr. President go night night now.”  He placed his head on the table and fell instantly to sleep.

“David,” Dr. Xivray began, warning and steel in her voice.

“No, this is better,” David insisted. “Trust me: When he wakes up, he’ll be a new man.”

“Just so long as he’s the same man he was before all this began,” said Dr. Xivray. “Before McKinley Garfield got ahold of him.”

“Have faith, my sister,” said David.

Dr. Xivray closed her eyes and pressed the tips of her fingers to her temples. “Sometimes, I think I should have stayed in the box,” she said.

Three hours later…

Just as members of the crew who’d sacked out earlier began stirring, prepping coffee and food (Fernando Islander made superb Western omelettes for everyone), Naomi finally drifted off to sleep. I’m sorry to say that you probably wouldn’t find her snoring adorable, but I’m here to tell you that it is. She had sprawled awkwardly on a nearby loveseat, her head resting against the football, which she was using as a pillow. (Little Odin tried to retrieve it, but I shooed him away.)

I was fighting the urge to go snuggle with her; I was so tired, and she looked so incredibly snuggleable. But I resisted. For one thing, I wanted to bear witness to David’s ongoing efforts to restore the president’s mind. For another, there was really no extra room on the loveseat.

As I have mentioned, Dr. Xivray doesn’t sleep, exactly, but her periods of downtime resemble human slumber. She was doing her version of dozing, her head down on the table next to the president’s. David was still awake, but looking terribly haggard. “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered.

“What’s happening?” I said.

“Velvet, would you ask a bomb squad technician what was happening while he was trying to defuse a nuclear bomb?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “How much time on the countdown clock?”

“The point is that I’m trying to concentrate here,” said David.

“On what?” I said. (I’ll admit, I was tired, and feeling a bit punchy.)

“Do you really want to know?” said David.

“You ought to know that I really want to know,” I said. “I mean, you’re psychic, right?”

“Fine,” said David. “Garfield installed a self-destruct trigger in the president’s brain. One wrong move, and the president’s mind will be wiped clean.”

“I’ll be quiet,” I said.

I watched as David clasped the president’s head between his hands. Then he ducked his own head and murmured softly to himself. He was concentrating harder than I’d ever seen anyone concentrate before, and sweat streamed down his face, pooling under his chin and dripping onto the table.

Suddenly, David let out a shout, startling Dr. Xivray and Naomi awake, and fell backwards in his chair. He hit the ground, his head bouncing loudly off the floor.

“David!” Dr. Xivray shouted, rushing to his side. He was out cold.

“Where am I?” said the president, sounding more alert and confident than we’d heard him since the abduction. He stood up from the table. “What’s happening here?” He looked and sounded like a man used to being in charge. All Xivray Institute personnel stopped what they were doing and stood at attention (except David, who still lay prone on the floor).

Dr. Xivray stood up next to David. “Mr. President,” she said.

“Niskayuna, my good friend,” said the president. “It’s so good to see you! I feel like… I feel like I’ve been asleep for a long time. Where am I? Can you please help me understand what’s happening here?”

David let out a soft moan as he began stirring on the floor. Dr. Xivray helped him to his feet. “He’s clean, Doc,” David said, his breath still ragged. “Free and clear.”

Dr. Xivray looked at the floor and breathed out a huge breath. “Thank you, David,” she said. Then she lifted her head to face the president. “Mr. President, it’s good to see you as well. More than you can possibly imagine. Please have a seat. We have little time and much to discuss.”

Chapter 39

“Fiddlesticks! I’m as right as rain”

Everyone was awake now, all of us looking somewhat unkempt and bedraggled, with the notable exception of Dr. Xivray, who was as perfectly coiffed as ever. We made quite the tableau: The president of the United States, perhaps instinctively, had positioned himself at the head of the table, the nuclear football clutched between his hands. (He had indignantly retrieved it from the loveseat where Naomi was napping, muttering, “That’s not a pillow!” under his breath.) His suit was wrinkled, but his tie was crisp and clean and tightly knotted. Dr. Xivray sat at the opposite end of the table, hands folded in front of her. Around the table sat the crew who had participated in the president’s abduction — David, Little Odin, Splendid Audrey, Sergeant Bam Bam, Fernando Islander, Long Hat, and myself.

The president clearly still had mixed feelings about what we had done. On the one hand, he was grateful to the Xivray Institute for helping to avert nuclear armageddon. On the other hand, he was infuriated at how easily such a small group of people had accomplished such an audacious (and potentially treasonous) act. “When this is over, I’m going to have a long talk with the director of the Secret Service,” he said. “What’s his name again?”

“Peter Hornblatt,” said David.

“That’s right,” said the president, looking concerned. “Is there still something wrong with my mind?”

“You just forgot is all,” said David. “It’s still right there in your brain; I can see it.”

“Get out of there!” shouted the president.

David said nothing. He had spent the better part of the past day deeply submerged in the president’s brain, a fact that the president had yet to fully internalize.

Naomi sat at the kitchen counter, slightly apart from the rest of us, still writing in her notebook. She looked radiant with joy at the story she was getting. I hoped she would get to publish it. (In other words, I hoped the world as we knew it wasn’t about to end.)

Briskly and without emotion, Dr. Xivray relayed to the president everything that had happened so far, including the ambiguous status of her own humanity. (“You’re still human — that’s perfectly plain,” the president assured her. “Thank you, Mr. President,” Dr. Xivray murmured.) He was appropriately astonished at the unfolding of the tale, interjecting occasional exclamations and asides at various points in the narrative (“You poor bastard” to Fernando Islander when he learned about his plight; “That traitorous devil” when he learned about McKinley Garfield’s betrayal; “Ninjas? Really?” when he learned about the ninjas).

“The important thing,” said Dr. Xivray, “is to protect you from further interference from McKinley Garfield.”

“Well, that and stop him from destroying the world,” said Little Odin.

“That sorry son of a bitch just bought himself a one-way ticket to Guantanamo Bay!” exclaimed the president. “I’d like to see him try to destroy the world from there.”

“That may prove difficult, Mr. President,” said Dr. Xivray. “The man is enormously powerful. There’s no telling how many people are already in his clutches.”

“I actually have some thoughts about that,” said David.

All eyes turned towards David, who coughed into his fist. “Garfield’s power over people is transitory. He requires repeated contact with his subjects to maintain his psychic control. The president was a special case because Garfield embedded his influence deeply and over many months. It would have taken years for Garfield’s influence over the president to completely fade if I hadn’t stepped in today.”

“Thank you for that, David,” said Dr. Xivray. “We would never have gotten this far if we hadn’t found you when we did. I’m grateful to you for joining the team.”

“Forget it,” said David, brushing off Dr. Xivray’s praise (but secretly pleased, I could tell). “But like I was saying, most of Garfield’s subjects, without direct contact with him, will be A-OK in a couple of days.”

“That was certainly my experience,” said Fernando Islander. “Well, except for being held at a Homeland Security black site.”

“Sorry about that,” said the president, looking only slightly shamefaced.

“Hey, I did try to shoot you,” said Fernando Islander.

“I need to get back to Washington immediately,” said the president.

“That may not be advisable,” said Dr. Xivray. “Garfield could get you under his spell again. Or if not you, he could turn your entire cabinet against you in a blink of an eye.”

“The 25th Amendment,” said Naomi.

“What’s that?” said Splendid Audrey.

“It’s the process by which a president’s cabinet can remove him from office, declaring him unfit to serve.”

“Fiddlesticks! I’m as right as rain,” said the president. He pointed at David. “He said so.”

“Yes, you are,” said David. “But your cabinet might not be.”

“Garfield could be orchestrating a coup as we speak,” said Sergeant Bam Bam.

“The bottom line is, we need to find Garfield and incapacitate him before he can wreak any more havoc,” said Dr. Xivray.

“That’ll be difficult,” said Little Odin. “From what you’ve told me, the man’s untouchable.”

“Finding him will be easy enough,” said Twitch. “He’s on his way here.”

“Here?” said Naomi. “How do you know?”

“I just intercepted a coded, back-channel communication between Garfield and the NSA.”

“You’re not supposed to be able to do that,” said the president.

Twitch shrugged. “He’s got company with him. Twenty Secret Service agents, all armed to the teeth.”

“How do they even know where we are?” I said.

Twitch pointed at the president. “The president has a tracker, embedded in his neck.”

The president touched his neck, seemingly involuntarily. “I do?”

“Yup,” said Twitch, “a little surgery performed on the day of your inauguration, courtesy of McKinley Garfield.”

“Gosh, I have no recollection of that,” said the president.

“It was done in your sleep,” said Twitch, tapping his thigh. “There wouldn’t have even been a memory for Garfield to erase.”

“How do you know all this?” said the president.

“If it’s recorded online anywhere,” said Twitch, a touch of pride in his voice, “I can find it out.”

“How long do we have before they get here?” said Dr. Xivray.

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Plenty of time,” said Dr. Xivray.

Chapter 40

“Wait, who flew the helicopter?”

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later…

McKinley Garfield and his Secret Service entourage arrived in a phalanx of black, government-issue sedans. The cars came to a stop about five hundred yards from the house. All of the agents got out of their cars simultaneously, looking tall and serious and driven. They all wore identical sunglasses, though the sky was dark and swollen with ominous clouds. They fanned out and established a perimeter around the safe house. Then McKinley Garfield himself emerged from the back seat of one of the cars. He paced back and forth in front of the vehicle, his gaze never wavering from the house. He was still limping from his arrow injury, which pleased me enormously, I’m only slightly ashamed to report.

Inside the house, all of the windows were now blocked by sheets and towels pinned in place with thumbtacks. Xivray Institute personnel, myself included, were positioned next to each window, each of us pressed firmly against the wall. From where I was standing, I could see what was happening outside through a small gap between the towel and the window frame. A cow (the one Long Hat had dubbed “Esmeralda”) grazed nearby, oblivious to the drama unfolding. Naomi had not moved from the kitchen counter, but she had produced a second notebook from somewhere and was frantically writing even more notes. Fernando Islander sat on the loveseat Naomi had napped upon, looking nervous.

Dr. Xivray was a picture of calm, standing near Naomi at the kitchen counter. “We must assume that all of the agents out there are under Garfield’s complete control,” she said, “which means he has likely overridden their institutional directive to protect the president at all costs.”

The president sat in a chair in the center of the room, decidedly not a picture of calm. “What are we going to do, Niskayuna?” he said, chewing his lower lip.

“Several things are about to happen,” said Dr. Xivray to the president, which wasn’t really an answer to his question. She turned to Long Hat, who was standing between the kitchen and the living room. “Are they ready?” she said.

Long Hat nodded and consulted a small, makeshift electronic device, fiddling with a series of dials and controls. The device emitted a mild hum and three loud beeps. “Any second now,” said Long Hat. “They’re almost here.”

Almost immediately after that, very faintly, I heard the low thrum of a helicopter, getting louder with each second. Outside the window, past the quietly grazing Esmeralda, I could see McKinley Garfield and the Secret Service agents peering up at the sky (and at each other) with confusion and concern as a small helicopter descended towards the lawn between them and the house. Esmeralda trotted away from the commotion to find a quieter place to graze.

“What’s happening?” said Naomi, who could not see out the window from her vantage point. As briefly as I could, I updated her on the latest occurrences (excluding Esmeralda’s relocation).

“Oh, this is intolerable,” said Naomi, referring to her position in the room, and moved to the nearest window to see for herself what was going on.

The helicopter landed. As its blades began their slow deceleration, out stepped three figures: Bert (née 44J33), Judy (née XK729), and Ray (née Y2485), Long Hat’s former bandmates, now known collectively as The Tin Men.

“It’s The Tin Men!” said many, many people inside the house. I think I saw some of the Secret Service agents outside mouth the words as well. Recall, The Tin Men’s first album had just been released and was in the process of going triple platinum. They were very famous. Their arrival was a surprise to many of us, including myself.

The robots took several confident steps towards the house, came to a stop right outside the door, and turned to face the Secret Service agents. They stood perfectly still.

“Wait, who flew the helicopter?” said Naomi.

“Judy,” said Long Hat, a touch of pride in his voice. “I sent a piloting app to her this morning.”

“This is so cool,” said Naomi.

“I didn’t know they were coming,” said Twitch, looking at Dr. Xivray.

“Neither did I,” said Little Odin, who seemed miffed to have been left out of whatever strategy this was.

“Neither did I,” said Sergeant Bam Bam (which was hardly a surprise, as he received most of his orders and updates from Little Odin).

“I knew,” said David.

“Yes,” said Twitch, “nothing is secret from you, David.”

“Mental Man,” said David.

“Why are they here?” I asked.

“For protection,” said David. “They’re immune to McKinley Garfield’s influence.”

“As am I,” said Dr. Xivray. “Are you ready?”

“Yup,” said David.

“Let’s go,” said Dr. Xivray, and walked towards the front door.

“What are you doing?” said the president.

Dr. Xivray looked at him and said nothing.

“Outside that door there are twenty armed men and a homicidal telepath,” said the president, his eyes wide. “You’re going out there?”

Dr. Xivray paused before responding. “Yup.”

“Wait!” said Long Hat.

“What is it now?” said Dr. Xivray with a flicker of impatience, her hand still on the doorknob.

“The robots,” said Long Hat, “their personalities come from you, right?”

“We really don’t have time for this, Long Hat,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Please,” said Long Hat. “This is important to me.”

“The subroutines Twitch gave you were very stripped-down versions of my subconscious matrix. Low-level cognition, enough to allow them independent thought. Most of their abilities are a testament to your skills as a roboticist.”

“But their taste in music. That would be…”

The pause that followed lingered long enough to become pregnant. The secret of her identity aside, Dr. Xivray is above all else scrupulously honest. “Their taste in music comes from me, yes,” she said.

“I see,” said Long Hat softly. “Thanks. That’s all I wanted to know.”

Dr. Xivray opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. She nodded once in Long Hat’s direction (though he had turned away from her by then), opened the door, and walked out onto the lawn, David at her side.

Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall.

Chapter 41

“You have proven to be a most interesting adversary”

All at once, the skies opened up. Rain pounded down in angry torrents as Dr. Xivray, David, and the three robots squelch-squelched across the muddying lawn towards McKinley Garfield. The Secret Service agents surrounding the house moved not a muscle, despite the fact that their nice dark suits were getting soaked, and a potential threat was approaching their leader. They were all well trained, disciplined by nature and vocation, and no doubt under the additional psychic control of McKinley Garfield.

Dr. Xivray came to a stop in front of Garfield, flanked by David and Judy on one side, Bert and Ray on the other. The rain fell heavily on all of them, running down their faces in thick rivulets. “Hello, Mr. Garfield,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Hello, Dr. Xivray,” said Garfield. He was undoubtedly discomfited to be in the presence of so many whose thoughts he was unable to read or influence (David because of the strong psychic firewalls he had developed for himself, and the others because of their artificial brains), but his face was a mask of serene congeniality. “I must congratulate you on what you have accomplished,” he said. “You have proven to be a most interesting adversary.”

Dr. Xivray said nothing.

Garfield’s head remained still, but his gaze shifted to David. “And you, sir,” he said. “At our last meeting, I didn’t fully appreciate just how powerful you have become. Why, your abilities nearly match my own. Kudos to you!”

David said nothing.

“Seriously,” McKinley Garfield said. “I’ve met three others who are like us, and none of them could have hidden their thoughts from me the way you did, not to mention penetrating my firewall. Well done, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend,” said David.

“But now we have come to the end,” said Garfield, ignoring David’s rebuke. “My agents and I are going to secure the president and the nuclear football, and we are going to deliver him to the secretary of defense so they both can complete their roles in this project.”

“I cannot allow that,” said Dr. Xivray. The rain continued to pound down upon them, plinking loudly against the robots, who remained still.

McKinley Garfield almost managed to make his face look sad. “You don’t have a choice, I’m afraid,” he said. “It is only courtesy of my largesse that you’re even still alive.”

Dr. Xivray said nothing.

“What you don’t seem to appreciate,” said McKinley Garfield, “is that the world I’m making will be so much better than the world we have now. No more war. No more crime. No more poverty. No more suffering. The entire planet’s population working together in psychic harmony. And with human intelligence working in perfect synchronicity, we’ll be colonizing the galaxy before the century is over. But only if the technology you and Mr. Jefferson have developed is shared!” said McKinley Garfield.

“Mr. Jefferson?” said David.

“Twitch,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Oh, that’s right,” said David. “Isn’t it funny? I forgot his real name for a second there.”

“A mind as extraordinary as yours will be a tremendous asset to humanity’s collective consciousness,” said McKinley Garfield to Dr. Xivray. “I hope you know that.”

“It’s a pretty cool mind, I’ll grant you that,” said David. “But I think the lady prefers to keep it for herself.”

“Enough!” said McKinley Garfield, dropping his veneer of politeness. “My agents and I are going to enter that building, either with all of you at our side or with your bloody corpses lying on the lawn.”

“Well, the robots don’t have blood,” said David.

McKinley Garfield glared at him.

“Do they have oil, do you think?” said David. “Or is that just robots in cartoons?”

“Shut up!” said McKinley Garfield. “The robots will be just as dead as you if you don’t instruct them to cooperate.”

“We have autonomy,” said Judy. “No one instructs us to do anything.”

“Then it’s your choice whether or not you die out here on the lawn,” said McKinley Garfield.

“No one’s dying out here,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Once again,” said McKinley Garfield, “we have arrived at the point at which you no longer have a choice.”

“I think you’ll find that’s not accurate,” said Dr. Xivray.

David gestured to the Secret Service agents surrounding the house. One by one, the agents returned to their cars and drove away, their windshield wipers flailing wildly against the downpour. McKinley Garfield gaped at the departing agents, too astonished to say anything.

“They’ll wake up back at HQ with no memory of this place,” said David. “Pretty nifty, huh?”

A lot had been happening, psychically speaking, during the brief conversation on the lawn that had just occurred. David had formed a psychic link with all of the agents on the property, eliminating Garfield’s hold over them and establishing one of his own. All of this was accomplished without Garfield detecting anything. Much later, David referred to these two minutes of psychic activity as the culmination of his life’s work — his masterpiece. No one could disagree with him. Unfortunately, McKinley Garfield still had one more trick up his sleeve (literally), which David had yet to perceive.

Garfield bellowed and turned towards David in a fury. “You!” he snarled. “You have no idea what you’re doing!”

“No,” said David, “you had no idea what I was doing. Isn’t that cool?”

Garfield screamed in frustration and rage. He pointed at Dr. Xivray. At least, everyone thought he was pointing at Dr. Xivray. Actually, he was activating a wrist-mounted pistol hidden in his sleeve, exactly the same sort of rig with which he had outfitted Fernando Islander for the Correspondents’ Dinner. At the last moment, David caught a flash of his intent, but it was too late. Garfield flicked his wrist once, firing a single bullet through the center of Dr. Xivray’s forehead. She fell backwards into the mud and lay still. Raindrops pooled on her open eyes, looking nothing like tears.

Chapter 42

“And then there was nothing at all”

Excerpt of Velvet Derrick’s interview with David Thorne, six weeks after the incident outside the Xivray Institute safe house:

VD: Can you tell me what happened?

DT: I missed it. That’s what happened. The son of a bitch figured out how I had gotten past his firewall the last time and he put up a new one that I completely missed.

VD: It wasn’t your fault.

DT: Yeah? Then whose fault was it?

VD: What else can you tell me?

DT: I’ve never been connected to someone who died. I’ve never…

VD: …

DT: …

VD: David?

DT: I was in her head again, Velvet. The instant the bullet hit, I was connected with her, just like the time at the factory, but this time… this time… [inaudible]

VD: What?

DT: This time, I felt the life snuff out of her.

VD: My God.

DT: You know how they say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes? That’s not what happened with her. Not exactly.

VD: What happened?

DT: She went back to one memory. Just one memory from when she was four years old. Except it was more vivid than any memory. It was like she had time-traveled back to that day, experiencing it for the first time.

VD: What was the memory?

DT: A picnic with her parents. They were in a park somewhere, sitting on a big checkered blanket. She ate too many deviled eggs and the sweetest grapes in the world and lemonade that was just so amazingly good. Her parents split a bottle of wine. They were usually pretty busy with their jobs, so this was special. A family of ducks kept waddling up to their blanket looking for food. Her father used a Swiss Army knife to cut grapes into quarters against his thumb, which made her nervous. He gave her the wedges of grape to toss to the ducks, who would snatch them out of the air, or else let them land on the ground and then wrestle over who got to eat them. That made her laugh. Later, partway into another bottle of wine, her father picked her up by her wrists and spun her around and around. She was looking up at her father’s face, the force of his spinning making her feet fly out behind her, and she was filled with… she was filled with… the purest joy of her entire life.

VD: …

DT: And then… And then, the picture started to get grainy, break up into little dots. And it faded, like a photo left out in the sun. She was afraid. She had… She had time to be afraid, Velvet. And then there was nothing at all.

VD: …

DT: The whole thing took less than a millisecond.

End of excerpt.

On the lawn, Dr. Xivray dead at his feet, David screamed. He lunged at Mckinley Garfield, who lunged at him. But then a curious thing happened. Both of them froze in mid-lunge, their bodies leaning forward, their arms outstretched, their faces contorted in rage. The battle between them had shifted, now taking place entirely in their minds.

In the house, there were panicked shouts from various Xivray Institute personnel the moment Dr. Xivray hit the ground. The president, in the center of the room, was the only person in the house who hadn’t witnessed what had occurred. “What’s happening?” he shouted, unable to keep the panic from his voice.

Twitch ran straight at him. “You!” he barked. “Come with me. Right now!”

“What?” said the president, unused to being spoken to in such a way.

“There’s no time!” said Twitch. “Let’s go!”

None of us knew what Twitch was up to. We watched him, dumbfounded, as he lindy-hopped the president of the United States out of his chair and hustled him towards the door, the president shouting questions and protests the entire way. Once they’d cleared the threshold, we streamed out after them, none of us sure what was happening. The rain jackhammered down. Twitch was running towards Dr. Xivray’s body.

“Judy!” he shouted, “Help me get Niskayuna on the bird!”

The robot responded at once, grabbing Dr. Xivray’s ankles as Twitch grabbed her wrists. They duck-walked her towards the helicopter. “Come on!” Twitch shouted to the president, who, after the briefest of hesitations, followed them. The helicopter started up and very soon it had taken flight, Judy at the controls, Twitch and the president in the back, Dr. Xivray’s body stretched out prone across their laps.

David and McKinley Garfield were still squared off against each other, frozen in place. Their bodies seemed to vibrate with the intensity of their concentration. Those of us still on the ground formed a loose circle around them, unsure what to do. Above us, the helicopter rose higher and higher.

I could see Little Odin and Sergeant Bam Bam glance at each other, sharing the sort of unspoken communication that can only be achieved through years of working together. They were clearly about to make a move to either kill or incapacitate McKinley Garfield, but before they could act, both David and Garfield screamed in unison and collapsed into the mud, unconscious. The mental battle that had been taking place between them was evidently over, the victor, if there was one, unknown to us.

Meanwhile, in the helicopter, the president was trying to assert some presidential authority. “I demand to know where we’re going,” he shouted above the roar of the helicopter’s rotors.

“The Xivray Institute,” said Twitch. He handed the president his Q-phone. “I need you to call whoever you have to call to make sure the best brain surgeon in the country meets us there. As soon as you know who it is, I’ll send them Dr. Knoblauch’s notes.”

“Notes on what?”

“The operation,” said Twitch, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The president looked at him blankly, and then down at Dr. Xivray’s corpse. Her empty eyes stared up at nothing. “Operation?” he said.

“That’s right,” said Twitch. “That brain of hers? I’ve got a backup.”

Chapter 43

“The answer to that question Is somewhat complex”

Excerpt of testimony given before the Congressional Committee on Niskayuna Xivray (dubbed the “Xivray Commission” in the press). The questioner is Senator Gordian Reeves. The witness is Dr. Niskayuna Xivray (3.0).

GR: Can you state your full name for the record?

NX: Niskayuna Malibu Xivray.

GR: Would that be the same Niskayuna Malibu Xivray who died of brain cancer a year ago, and also from a bullet wound to the head three weeks ago?

[murmuring among spectators]

NX: The answer to that question is somewhat complex, but the short version is “no.”

GR: Can the witness provide the long version?

NX: Several years ago, Dr. Xivray — the original Dr. Xivray — developed a technology to record a perfect artificial duplicate of her own brain. I’m afraid I can’t share the details of that technology.

GR: That’s okay. I doubt that anyone on this committee would understand them.

[laughter among spectators]

NX: Working with an extremely talented young man named Gilbert Jefferson, Dr. Xivray was able to transfer that artificial duplicate into an artificial biological brain that could be implanted in a willing human donor.

GR: In this case, Dr. Xivray herself.

NX: That is correct. Dr. Xivray had a terminal illness, but the success of their project allowed a version of her identity to continue in that same body.

GR: And this happened again when Dr. Xivray — the second Dr. Xivray — was shot in the head by White House Chief of Staff McKinley Garfield.

[disorder among spectators]

NX: That is correct, although I’d like to state for the record that the second Dr. Xivray had no knowledge of the existence of this backup brain. That project was undertaken in secret by Gilbert Jefferson.

GR: How could you not have known?

NX: Twitch — excuse me, Mr. Jefferson — created a second brain without my predecessor’s knowledge. It was designed to record and preserve her memories, backing them up via satellite every fifteen minutes, no matter where she was in the world.

GR: And that backup brain is now in your skull.

NX: Yes, thanks to the extraordinary efforts of a surgeon named Dr. Bartholomew Mulligan, with the assistance of Mr. Jefferson.

GR: And how much of your predecessor’s experiences do you remember?

NX: The last backup occurred three minutes and 42 seconds before McKinley Garfield shot her. I recall everything that occurred before that.

GR: Is there yet another backup of your brain out there?

NX: No.

GR: No?

NX: At my insistence, there will be no more backups. When next I die, it shall be permanent.

GR: Why?

NX: This technology should not be abused. The human race as we know it would not survive the artificial immortality of its citizens. We must keep replenishing the species with new ideas, new people, new minds.

GR: And yet you yourself have had three bites at the apple.

NX: Yes, though none of them were my choice. Each of my iterations was brought into existence by others, including the original Dr. Xivray, whom I consider to be a separate entity from me. I’ve been very clear about that. Also, I’ve come to disagree with those decisions.

GR: Isn’t that like a teenager declaring, “I didn’t ask to be born”?

NX: So be it.

GR: You could always have yourself… switched off.

NX: My brain is synthetic. Not suicidal.

[laughter among spectators]

GR: What can you tell this committee about McKinley Garfield’s plot against the president?

NX: Not just the president, but rather the entire human race. The details are included in the Xivray Institute report submitted to the committee the day before yesterday. If you’ll refer to the packets in front of you…

[material deleted]

GR: What became of David Thorne and McKinley Garfield?

NX: Both of them currently lie in comas at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C. The outcome of their psychic confrontation remains uncertain.

GR: Can you make a recommendation to this committee about what should occur if and when either of them wakes up?

NX: If David wakes up, it is my opinion that he be awarded the presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honor this country bestows. In the end, he may have single-handedly saved the human race. In fact, it is my recommendation that he should be awarded this honor even if he never wakes up.

GR: And Mr. Garfield?

NX: McKinley Garfield should face many charges, among them treason. But prosecuting him will prove extremely difficult, given the psychic powers he has demonstrated. He is currently under 24-hour guard by the three robots designed by Dr. York Delmonte at the Xivray Institute.

GR: The Tin Men?

NX: That is how they are known in popular culture, yes.

GR: My granddaughter gave me their album, but I can’t figure out how to download it.

[laughter among spectators]

NX: If and when Mr. Garfield wakes up, he will have to be treated with extreme care… He is in my estimation the most dangerous man who has ever lived.

[disorder among spectators]

End of excerpt.

Three days later…

In a small hospital room in Walter Reed Army Medical Center, McKinley Garfield stirred. His arms and legs were shackled to the bed in which he lay, and three robots stood in posted positions around the room. Garfield opened his eyes, and one of the robots, who referred to herself as Judy, sent a silent electronic communication to Gilbert Jefferson at the Xivray Institute. The robots waited to see what would happen next.

“Meow meow meow,” said McKinley Garfield.

Meanwhile…

At that exact moment, in a slightly larger hospital room in Walter Reed Army Medical Center, David Thorne opened his eyes. This went unobserved, but a machine monitoring his brain activity sent a silent electronic message to Gilbert Jefferson at the Xivray Institute.

“Hello?” said David Thorne, before falling back into unconsciousness. No one answered.

Two days later…

Dr. Xivray, Twitch, and I were gathered in David’s hospital room when he woke up again. We’d been sitting vigil for the past 24 hours, hoping that he’d stir. He opened his eyes slowly, and squinted against the overhead lights. His gaze darted from face to face, and gradually, a change came over him. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Velvet,” he said, turning to face me directly. “Think of a number from one to ten.”

The request puzzled me. “Seven,” I said.

“No,” he said, shaking his head in irritation. “Don’t tell me.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay you understand, or okay you’re thinking of a new number?”

“Both,” I said. “I’m thinking of a new number, and I also understand I’m not supposed to tell you.”  (Full disclosure:  I was still thinking of the number seven.)

“Okay,” said David. He furrowed his brow for a moment, and then his face smoothed. After that, he laughed for a very long time. Twitch, Dr. Xivray, and I waited for him to get over it, whatever it was.

“What’s so funny?” I said, finally.

“I have no idea what number you’re thinking of! What do you think about that, Velvet?” He turned to Twitch. “I don’t know Velvet’s number! I don’t have a damned clue! How about that?”

“That’s great, man,” said Twitch.

“Congratulations,” said Dr. Xivray.

David lay his head back against the pillow, a dreamy smile on his face. “It’s so quiet,” he said. “I can’t believe how quiet it is.”

“David,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Yeah?” he said, still gazing up at the ceiling, a wide grin still in place.

“What number am I thinking of?” said Dr. Xivray.

David frowned and looked at her. “Four,” he said.

“Correct,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Huh,” said David.

Chapter 44

“Sui generis”

McKinley Garfield slipped back into his coma, and was convicted in absentia for treason. Occasionally, he stirs and meows some more, but most days, he remains unconscious, shackled and in isolation at Walter Reed. If he ever wakes and regains his faculties, his sentence (death) will be carried out via a remotely administered lethal injection.

The intense media scrutiny of all of the people involved in this affair died down, eventually, and things returned to normal at the Xivray Institute, though it took awhile. The president pardoned us all for the many, many crimes we had committed in our efforts to save the world. David was indeed awarded the presidential Medal of Freedom, though he skipped the ceremony, much to the president’s consternation. Long Hat formed a new band, with humans this time, and they’re very pleased with themselves and with each other, even if their music isn’t to Dr. Xivray’s taste. Fernando Islander was offered and accepted the concierge position once held by his former boss, Fellipe. Twitch, to the delight of everyone, began dating a very sweet computer programmer named Maggie Leone. Vegas Patel won the grand prize at the World Series of Poker and was promptly banned for life from the event. (He donated his winnings to the Institute.) Splendid Audrey resumed work on her rocket-propelled jet car, which would play a significant role in Dr. Xivray’s next adventure. Little Odin and Sergeant Bam Bam spent a week in South America, rescuing a kidnapped publishing heir (but that’s another story). Nice Guy Miranda eventually got over her upset regarding Dr. Xivay’s deception and returned to the Institute to complete her research on the mealworms. I continued to see Naomi, who would rise to fame writing a series of articles on all that had transpired. (She leaves the book-writing to me.) For the most part, all of us were happy.

David, however, remained at loose ends, and eventually he went to speak to Dr. Xivray in her study, which had been fully repaired and renovated since the explosion.

“Hello, David,” said Dr. Xivray as he entered.

“I just want you to know, I’m not reading your mind right now,” said David.

“That’s fine.”

“I mean, I can control the ability. I can turn it off and on.”

“I appreciate that,” said Dr. Xivray.

“I just don’t want you to think I’m invading your privacy.”

“I didn’t think that,” said Dr. Xivray. “But is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”
“I haven’t been avoiding you!”

“David, we haven’t spoken in 27 days.”

“Yeah, well…” said David, before trailing off into silence.

“What can I do for you, David?”
“That isn’t the question, is it?”

“What do you mean?” said Dr. Xivray.

“I mean the question really is, what can I do for you? What good am I to the Institute anymore?”

“David—” Dr. Xivray began.

“No, hear me out,” said David. “You recruited me for my abilities. And because of a very specific threat.”

“True,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Well, my abilities are gone,” said David. “And so is the threat. Except maybe to any mice who happen to be hanging around Walter Reed.”

“You have more to offer besides your former abilities,” said Dr. Xivray.

“Yeah?” said David, his voice thick with skepticism. “Like what?”

Dr. Xivray looked at him for a moment. “Are you familiar with the term ‘sui generis’?”

“Nope,” said David.

“It’s Latin. It means unique. One of a kind.”

“Well, that’s not me anymore,” said David. “It was never me, as it turns out. I mean, even before. Everything I could do, McKinley Garfield could do even better.”

“Not better,” said Dr. Xivray. “You beat him.”

“That was a fluke,” said David. “Besides, you were there when he told us: There are at least three others out there in the world with psychic powers.”

“I don’t personally recall that conversation, as it occurred after Twitch’s last backup.  Nevertheless, those are three people I’d be most interested in locating.”

“Well, sure,” said David sourly, “now that your resident psychic is firing blanks.”

“That’s enough self-pity, David. When I used the term ‘sui generis,’ I wasn’t referring to your psychic talents.”

“What do you mean?” said David.

“No one else could have done what you did,” said Dr. Xivray. “You were exactly the right man in exactly the right moment. And not just because you had special powers. You took risks. You made sacrifices. You dedicated yourself to a cause and you put the needs of others above your own. That makes you quite an extraordinary fellow, in my opinion. One of a kind.”

David blushed. “No more so than Twitch. Or Velvet. Or Splendid Audrey. Or Little Odin. Or Sergeant Bam Bam. That’s what everyone here does.”

Dr. Xivray beamed. “Exactly! Don’t you see? You fit right in. The Xivray Institute is for people who want to live their best possible lives, to be their best possible selves. I’d say that’s what you’ve been doing, wouldn’t you?”

David was silent for a long moment. “So, you want me to stay?” he said, very quietly.

“Of course I want you to stay!” said Dr. Xivray. “Is that what you’ve been worried about?”

“I can read exactly one person’s mind on command. Yours, and you already know what you’re thinking. I just can’t see what use I’d be to you anymore, except maybe for party tricks.”

Dr. Xivray reached across her desk and clasped David’s hands in her own. “David, professionally and personally, I hope you’ll stay with the Institute,” she said. “There will always be a place for you here. But it’s your decision. It’s always been your decision.”

David smiled. “What the hell, I’ll stay.”

“Good,” said Dr. Xivray. “It’s settled then.”

“I still need a nickname.”

Dr. Xivray laughed. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

They continued to talk for several hours, late into the night, colleagues and good friends, enjoying one another’s company.  There was no more mention of David leaving.

The Personhood of Artificially Intelligent Living Entities Act (the PAILE Act as it was known in Congress, or the Xivray Act as it was known everywhere else) was signed into law by the president, granting U.S. citizenship to Dr. Xivray and acknowledging her status as a legal human being. (Each of the Tin Men was made a similar offer, but each declined. They do not consider themselves human, and in fact they revel in their robot identities.)

Despite the intense demand, Dr. Xivray refuses to share the technology used to replicate her own brain. She remains, to this day, sui generis — one of a kind.

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44