The Hades Connectionby Gabriel S. Timar |
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Chapter 8
part 1 of 2 |
Attila ushered me into the think-tank, which was a little chamber adjoining the B52 briefing room. Although its layout resembled a dentist’s office, I was relieved when I noticed that the instruments of torture normally exhibited on a tray next to the chair were missing.
There was a fellow in a white waistcoat, obviously the doctor; a nurse; and a rather mean-looking individual, the technician on duty. They were apparently expecting me, since they all had a devilish grin on their face as I entered. Following the introductions, Attila pointed at the chair. “Sit down, George, sit down,” he said grinning from ear to ear. “This chair is the seat of the University.”
“It doesn’t compare with Dean Taylor’s office,” I grunted and sat in the comfortable, leather-upholstered chair. Taylor was the Dean of the Arts and Sciences at Memorial University when I was a student there. He was my number one fan. He was sure I was destined to greatness. We all make mistakes...
The nurse produced two black plastic straps with tiny silver dots on the inside. “These are the sensors, Mr. Pike,” she said. “We’ll put one on your left wrist and one on your right ankle; they will not impede your mobility at all.
“Through these dot-sensors, we will monitor your psychological and physical reactions. We feed the output into the supercomputer, and then one of its batch programs will control the speed of transmission to suit the absorption rate of your brain.
“Now, if you’ll kindly hold on to those platinum knobs on the armrest, we will channel the transmission through them. The process is not very pleasant, but it will not take long.”
Under normal circumstances, if I have to sit in a dentist’s chair, I turn almost incoherent from fear. Believe me, there were similarities: this was just as frightening. The fear made me completely numb. I barely had enough strength to nod. The nurse fitted the straps and remarked with a big smile: “Please hold on tight, Mr. Pike. It’s not going to be worse than a tooth extraction.”
She should not have said that. I stood up. Suddenly I felt a surge in my bowels; I just had to go to the toilet.
When I voiced my desire, Attila smiled. “Sit down, George. I know the feeling. As toothaches usually stop the moment you’re in the dentist’s chair, this feeling will pass too. Just park your butt and grab those knobs.”
“But what if I can’t hold it?” I asked meekly.
“If you mess your pants, George,” Attila snapped, “I’ll give you a wash job personally. Just sit down, hold on to the knobs and shut up.”
With total resignation, like a sacrificial lamb, I sat down, putting my hands on the knobs.
“Hang on tight, Mr. Pike,” the nurse said. “Please don’t let go, whatever happens.”
I nodded. From the corner of my eyes I saw the doctor looking at the dials and indicators. He flipped a few switches, turned to the nurse, and said: “He’s a tough customer, Flo, but one cc will be enough for him.”
Then he turned to the technician and announced: “Okay, Nobel, he’s all yours.”
The technician turned around and gave me another devilish grin. “Here we go!” he said and threw the main switch.
I felt a healthy electric jolt but held on to the platinum knobs as if my life depended on it. In a few microseconds, every detail of my terrestrial life flashed by. It was crystal-clear, lightning fast, leaving out nothing. Then came a couple of seconds of total darkness, and the whole thing was over. Although the process was fast, it still had a numbing effect on my mind.
“Let go, it’s over,” came the nurse’s voice from the ether. She sounded as if she were a couple of light-years away.
“I’m going to give you a shot of adrenalin,” she continued. I barely noticed the hypodermic needle sliding into the vein on my left arm. It was as if the world around me were in slow motion, like the television replay of a touchdown in a football game.
“Okay, George, get up, move... Off you go...” Attila’s commands came in jumbled. I could barely comprehend, but like an automaton, I followed orders. What happened after that I do not really know.
My next clear recollection was a beautiful, grass tennis court where I was exchanging tremendous groundstrokes with another guy. My forehand topspin was right on the money. Slowly my mind cleared, and I began to enjoy the game.
“Okay,” said the fellow, who was evidently the pro. “Try a few serves and let’s knock off for the day.”
I nodded, picked up the balls, served a few high kickers with moderate success when the pro signaled that the session was over. As we shook hands at the net, he remarked:
“You are very good, Mr. Pike, but next time I’d appreciate your complete, undivided attention from the start.”
Although I was on the verge of hitting him, I controlled my aggression, and with a big smile I promised him faithfully that next time I would make a better effort.
Attila was sitting at courtside sipping a beer. “You’re quite good,” he said. “When you come back, you should join our group; you would fit in well. We play twice a week.”
We walked back to B52 where Nick was waiting for me with two military-looking gents.
“Well, skipper,” Nick smiled mockingly, “how did it go?”
By this time, I had completely recovered from the treatment and felt like a million dollars. However, I would not be a true-blue Newfoundlander if I were satisfied. I just had to complain about something.
“It was rough,” I grunted tersely, “very rough.” Then I flopped down on the nearest chair and extracted a beer from the armrest bar. Before I opened it, I threw a questioning look at Attila who winked at me and said: “It’s okay, George, go ahead.”
“Quite a few things happened while you guys were having fun,” Nick started. “A whole new situation is evolving. We had a serious security problem here in the office. Someone was selling information to the competition about George’s mission.
“Security caught the culprit. They are questioning him right now. Evidently, the competition also ran some tests and concluded that our chances are very good of correcting the orbit with George negotiating for us. The Hercules attempt and the Miss Jackson move support this theory.
“I am sure they informed Ivan. He will be waiting to put George on the public transport. Therefore I believe the mission is doomed. We’d better cancel it and completely rethink the program.”
“I’m not so sure,” I replied. “Perhaps you should let me question Miss Jackson before we make any hasty decisions. What do we know about her?”
“Not much,” Nick said, “she’s part of an old Heavens trick: the purgatory game. It works like this: they pick a moderately able soul, a sixty or a seventy who has experience in the particular activity they want. Miss Jackson must have had considerable experience in seduction and bribery.
“They probably told her that before she could enter the pearly gates she must persuade you to abort the mission. She was told as much as she needed to know; then they gave her a body, probably very much like her old one, installed into her navel a microphone that’s not much bigger than a pinhead, and dumped her in your apartment.
“When you’re ready, we will go to your place and take her back to the head office of Heavens. Although it will not make much difference, we will sue them for industrial espionage. This is the standard procedure in such instances; it keeps everybody honest.”
“Niccolo,” I said sincerely, “to do that would be immensely stupid. Fate — or whatever higher powers you guys believe in — gave us the solution to our problems in the person of Miss Jackson. With her help I can replace their negotiator almost without risk.”
“How?” Nick snapped.
“It’s too complex,” I said. “Just give me a little technical help and in a couple of hours you’ll understand it. If you don’t agree with me, then you can scrub the mission.”
“Fair enough,” Nick agreed.
“George,” Attila remarked, “I was told you’re brilliant. I also know that the difference between a genius and a lunatic is only one small step. I can’t tell, but is it possible that you’ve gone too far this time?”
“Attila,” I said seriously, “you’re a first-class general, a brave, courageous, skilled fighter; but when it comes to lowdown, sneaky, dirty, double-crossing tricks, your imagination is zero, nil, tilt. I’m your exact opposite: I’m a Canadian lawyer.”
Attila gave me a strange little smile: “That may be, but I did a few sneaky, lowdown, dirty things in my first life as well.”
“You may have,” I replied, “but you did not keep it up: you did not practice law. Anyway, before I continue, I would like to ask you guys a few, rather sensitive questions. How about these dudes?” I pointed at the two uniformed men. “Can I talk in their presence?”
“Of course,” Attila smiled. “They are Mr. Melchior and Mr. Balthasar from our Security division. They are associates of a friend of yours: Casper. Their sole purpose in life is to assure our security. Sure, you can talk in their presence.”
“Okay, Attila,” I continued, “to your straight-thinking, honest, soldierly mind this may come as a shock. There are other ways than direct confrontation, swords and cavalry.”
Attila fiddled with the controls of his laptop. “Yes sir,” he mused, “N-bombs, biological weapons, laser cannon and other mass killing devices. Everything has changed; the good old days are gone, and even the sword has gone out of style. People nowadays do not know the pleasure of a well-delivered riposte crunching the other guy’s collarbone. We live in complicated times. Sorry, George, continue, please.”
“Well,” I continued, “can you blank off the navel microphone?”
“No,” Melchior said, “but I can do better. I can show you how to remove it.”
“Great,” I sighed, “can you put it back?”
“Why would you want to do that?” he asked.
“My plan starts with extracting the mike from Miss Jackson’s navel,” I explained. “Next, I want to shove the mike into a soundproof box. Subsequently I will talk her into cooperating with us. When — not if — I’ve convinced her, I will reinsert the microphone and accept her proposition for thirty thousand souls for aborting the mission.
“Immediately after that, we shall fake an accident of some kind. As a result, both Miss Jackson and I will end up in a hospital where we both go into coma and are placed in the intensive care unit. Our bodies shall stay there until the mission is completed.
“All you have to do is make sure that we remain comatose. Then you install me into Captain von Vardy’s body and exchange Miss Jackson with Ivan. With this note,” I took Esther’s signed statement from my pocket, “you can have Ivan locked up in Miss Jackson’s body until we come back. Simple, isn’t it?”
“Not bad, George,” Nick remarked. “I’ve got it all on tape. Now, we’ll feed it into the supercomputer and check the odds.”
“No dice,” I snapped. “No computer. Everybody except you two, Luce, and these two muscle boys are suspect. Luce may hear the tape, nobody else.”
Attila smiled: “We’re not as dumb as you think. In a yellow security alert, nobody leaves the building, and all contacts with the outside world are blocked. Only Luce can lift a yellow alert.”
As on a cue, the door opened, and Luce entered with two husky young men, his personal bodyguards. “Stay put, fellows,” he said. “Don’t get up.”
He went to one of the vacant chairs and sat down. “I listened to your scheme, George,” he said. “It has potential. My only question is: why do we need Miss Jackson? Why couldn’t we give you an experienced operative?”
Copyright © 2004 by Gabriel S. Timar
