The Pretender - Chapter 4

Monday, June 28, 2083. 8:30 a.m.

Marcie sipped her coffee and stared out at New York City; streams and streams of traffic moved in tight grids in the skies above, with PAs ascending and descending seemingly chaotically.  Despite the late night, she was already showered and changed, dressed in the white t-shirt and blue jeans she ordered with her breakfast.  The hotel delivered both half an hour before.  They had even sent her a quite tasteful pair of shoes.  Apparently you could get anything delivered to your hotel room if you knew whom to ask. 

Marcie hadn’t heard a noise from Robbie’s room yet and she really wanted to chat.  She was trying to understand what had happened.  Not ten days had passed since Marcie first met Greg Pearce.  Since then, the case had escalated to the point at which strangers were shooting at her for no apparent reason.  She’d come to few conclusions and had a list of questions and inquiries as long as her arm, oh, and the next Prime Minister of Canada might be one of their prime suspects.  Coincidences were piling up, and no one was turning out to be who they seemed. 

“Good morning, sugar.”  Including Robbie.

“Hey, Robbie.”

She heard him pour a cup of coffee and walk over to join her.

“Well, what do you think?”  He sat on the couch beside her.  He was still in his pyjamas and robe.

“Robbie, I think we need to find ‘the Institute’.”

“Sounds good.”

“But I also think we need to talk to Ida Greer.”

“Why?”

“Well, I keep wondering about what those barracudas said about her last night.  Not only does she seem like our kind of person, but she’s connected, too.  She might actually know something.”

“About what?  The Pearce’s don’t run in that crowd.”

“No, about ‘the Institute’.”

Robbie raised his eyebrows.  “Maybe.”  He didn’t seem convinced.

Marcie walked over to the desk, picked up the telephone, and dialled the office.  The phone rang twice and then picked up.

“Noel and Associates.”

“Jeff, go out and call me back on 212-N8Y-2210.”

“Got it.”

She hung up and sat by the telephone waiting.  Minutes later, it rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”  It was Jeff.

“Hi.”

“Hey, you made the news!  No one’s got any good footage, though. A roofcam caught you from the top of a high-rise, but it was fuzzy.  The cab driver almost didn’t get out of the taxi.”

“Is he okay?”

“Sure.  Some scratches.  He talks about you and Robbie as if you’re some kind of super heroes or something.  That must’ve been some fight.”

“Not really.  Mostly we ran away a lot.  Listen, Jeff, can you give me Ida Greer’s number?  I need to talk to her.”

“Sure, hang on a sec.  She didn’t have anything to do with the attack, did she?” 

Marcie paused.  Greer was pretty quick to hand over those tickets.  No.  No, I don’t think so.  Doesn’t add up.  she couldn’t put her finger on why.  “No, I don’t think so, Jeff.  I just think she has some information I need.”

“Here it is.  Her assistant’s name is Marshall and the code is 416-1PY-5920.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

“Do you still want me to stay in the loft?”

“Please.  Make it look lived in, as if I’m still there.  Keep the blinds closed and order in, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Talk to you soon.”  Marcie hung up and dialled Greer’s code immediately. 

“Marshall Penfold.  May I help you?”

“Mr. Penfold, this is Marcie Noel of Noel and Associates.  I’m wondering if Ms. Greer has a couple of minutes to spare for me.”

“Oh, hello Ms. Noel.  I’m afraid Ms. Greer is out of town for a few days.  She may not pick up messages, so it might take her a while to return your call.”

Marcie hid her disappointment.  “No problem, Mr. Penfold.  Would you leave a message?”

“Sure.”

Marcie gave him the code for the room telephone.  “Thanks a lot.” 

Ten minutes later the phone rang.

“Marcie Noel.”

“Marcie,” said a cultured woman’s voice.  “Ida Greer.  So nice to talk to you again.  What can I do for you?”

Marcie was pleasantly surprised.  Penfold must have called Greer.  “Ms. Greer, so kind of you to return my call.  I have a request that may seem a bit unusual, but I’m hoping you’ll have the time to honour it.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to meet with you to discuss ‘the Institute’.”

Greer only paused for a millisecond, but Marcie heard it.

“What institute, Marcie?”

“That’s what I want to ask you about.”

“And why would you think I know anything?”

“Because the barracudas at the fundraiser tell me you know everything.”

“And do you always believe what you hear, Marcie?”

“Absolutely not.”

Another short pause.  “Well, coincidentally, I’m also in New York City doing some shopping.  I’m sure I can spare a few minutes for you.  Otherwise, you can wait until I return next week.”

God, another coincidence.  “That’s lucky, Ms. Greer.  How does lunch sound?”

“Lunch sounds fine. I like to eat at one.  And call me Ida.”

“Fine, Ida.  Is the Jean Georges in the Trump Tower all right with you?”

“Certainly.”

“Thank you, Ida.”

“I haven’t done anything yet, Marcie.  Good day.”  The line went dead.

Marcie hung up.  Robbie took the phone to reserve a table at Jean Georges, and then they spent the intervening four hours shopping.  What else does one do in New York City?  Of course, she hadn’t been able to pack, so the shopping was necessary.  Just perhaps not quite so much of it was necessary.

When she returned to the hotel, she put on her new white suit for the lunch and met Robbie in the main room of their suite at five to one.  He had pulled a suit cut leather jacket over his jeans and shirt.  He almost looked presentable.  Wow.

“What is up with you?”

“Gotta keep up appearances, sugar.”

They rode down the elevator, walked to the restaurant and were in their seats at one.  Ida Greer arrived shortly after.  She was a tall, thin woman of probably fifty years with a youthful attitude and a fire in her eyes.  Marcie liked her immediately.

They exchanged a few pleasantries and ordered their meals.  The menu was full of interesting classic French cuisine with a strong eastern twist.  The food was a little while coming, but when it finally arrived, it was exquisite, not surprising for a chef with such a reputation.  Marcie kept the talk light while they ate.  She waited until coffee came to broach the real topic of conversation.

“Ida, I asked you here to find out what you might know about ‘the Institute’.  Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Greer looked rueful. “The older you get, the more you know and eventually you know a little bit about everything, especially when you shut up and listen.  I’m afraid I have an eidetic memory, and it can be a burden because most people are very careless with their secrets.  They let something slip here, another detail there, and the next thing I know I’ve got it all figured out.  Ironically, I’m not interested in people’s secrets or the burden they can represent.”

“Is that why you shun society?”

“In part.  But mostly because I can’t stand the buggers.”  Marcie laughed.  Ida and Robbie did not.  Ida continued:  “Now, Marcie, you must understand that ‘the Institute’ is an ugly secret.  And it isn’t a kind place.  Not a kind place at all, at least what I know of it anyway.”

“How did you hear about it?”

“From a drunken friend, like everything else.  Power and privilege – along with a little alcohol – can stupefy some.  They size you up and assume you’re just as interested as they are in preserving your position.  They can’t imagine you’d disagree with some of the ridiculous things they do.”

“No.”

“But I have to say, sometimes I do tend to keep quiet about the secrets I hear.  And that’s my own personal hell, Marcie.  But on the topic of the Institute, I think I will speak, though I know little and the information is dangerous.  Human rights are being ignored, so take care how you use this knowledge.  I think the issue is set to explode, if you understand my meaning.  And one never wants to be too near the epicentre, does one?”

“No, ma’am.”

“‘The Institute’ is the Eastdown Institute, north of Toronto, just outside the town of Aurora on St. John’s Side Road.  I don’t know the exact address.  Apparently, they’re apprehending people, Marcie, on what criteria I don’t know, but I do know it isn’t random.  They’re apprehending people and they’re performing tests on them.  From what my associate told me, it all seems quite gruesome.  Assault certainly and, of course, an assault on human rights. However, not only the Canadian government, but the American as well, sanction the actions of the Institute, along with fourteen other countries.  That’s all I know, Marcie.  I caution you again; the man who told me this is dead.”  She paused while she took a sip of her coffee.  “He died of heart failure.”

“Don’t we all,” said Marcie.

They finished the lunch amicably enough, but Marcie was desperate to leave.  She wanted to go and check out this Eastdown Institute right away.  Perhaps she could get the papers involved.  If Helen Pearce was in Eastdown, Marcie was going to do whatever she could to get her out. 

Ida Greer left only a few minutes later. Immediately, Marcie started tapping the table impatiently as she waited for the cheque.

“Slowly, sugar.  Slow down.”

“We have a lot to do, Robbie.”

“Yes, but we won’t do it all today.  And I think we need to take it slow.  Sugar, this sounds bigger than us.”

You’re right.  Marcie felt a twinge of fear.  The bill came and Robbie signed it off.  They left the restaurant immediately and went up to the room where Marcie changed back into her jeans and shirt. She also pulled on a new pair of cowboy boots, beautifully tooled in real leather.  Too much money, but she didn’t care.  She walked out to the main room.

“Coffee, sugar?”  Marcie could smell the fresh pot.  Robbie was hunched over at his desk and didn’t look up from his laptop.

“Yeah, thanks.”  She went over and poured herself a cup.  “Look, you’re right.  I need to take it slow.  I’d be going off half-cocked.”  Robbie stopped typing and looked at her.

“Sure, but what was your first impulse?”

“I wanted to get a look at the place, just to get a feel for it.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“Of course, then, I wanted to knock on the door, arrest everybody, and free the prisoners.”

“Thanks G.I. Jane.”

“You asked.”

“I don’t think we should do a fly-by.  I bet there’s somebody keeping track of all air traffic.”

“I agree.  A ground car, then?”

“Yes.”

“I hate them.”

“Not this one, you won’t.”

“Hmph.  You know what?  I have an idea.  Are you logged on?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me borrow that computer for a minute.”  She checked her webmail and found a note from Tracy.  “Whoosh.”

“What’s up?”

“I got that condo, for a healthy piece of change.”

“You seem overjoyed.”

“It’s just not a priority anymore, I suppose.”

“Well, congrats.  Listen, I know a few people who might be able to help us, but we’ll have to come back here to meet with them after we finish scouting Eastdown.”

“No problem.  I like it in New York.  Nobody shoots at you.”

“Ha ha.  I’ll make some calls.”

“And I think we need a little excuse to be up in Aurora.  I think I need to do a little more real estate shopping, don’t you?”

“Oh sure, sugar.”  Robbie picked up the hotel phone.

Marcie spent a few minutes checking real estate websites and then sent an instant message to a condo sales office in Aurora, Ontario.  An answer came back right away.  Marcie typed back a response and sat back.

“Okay, we have an appointment for four-thirty.”

“That’s tight,” Robbie said as he put down his phone.

“I told them we might be late.  We’ll make it.”

Marcie logged off and handed the computer back to Robbie.  They left immediately.

They were back at Robbie’s condo in Toronto by three thirty where they grabbed a snack and then took the elevator down to the basement ground car garage.  Garages stink. Marcie couldn’t help wrinkling her nose at the smell of gasoline.  She was used to cell powered PAs, clean and quiet, but she followed Robbie without comment.  He walked up to a small red vehicle with sleek lines, very similar to a PA. 

“It looks like a Porsche.”

“That’s because it is a Porsche.”

“A Porsche ground car?  They haven’t made these things for twenty years.”

“This car is almost a hundred years old.  Get in.”

Porsche, and many of the other sports car manufacturers, had taken a huge hit in twenty-forty when the governments of many countries outlawed selling new performance combustion engine vehicles for general use, just like that, and threatened to outlaw combustion engines, period.  The condition of the air on the globe had become critical.  Drastic measures were called for.  Some companies folded but others, like Porsche, started building high quality, luxury, cell-powered family cars.  They stayed in their niche, but redefined their product to suit new attitudes.

Adapting seemed to be one of the company’s strong suits.  Porsche was the first ground car manufacturer to jump into the PA market as soon as the patents cleared about thirty years before.  As is often the case, Leonard Parker, the original inventor of the PA technology, got nowhere with it, mainly because of the amount of infrastructure needed for the masses to pilot the little planes safely.  This was the time before Control.   Parker had neither the resources nor the salesmanship to build up the capital necessary.    It wasn’t until the major car companies pitched in to fund the development of Control that the concept of personal flying vehicles took off.  Before they did that, however, Leonard Parker had to be bought out.  He was originally hired to run the development corporation but was quickly voted out of his job by the major shareholders.  Leonard Parker died infamous but poor, living off a modest retirement income.

Marcie got in.  This vehicle was comfortable and sleek in its interior design.  She liked it.  Robbie pulled out a set of old style keys, put one in the lock and turned it to start the car.  The engine revved and then purred.

“Built before they took the teeth out of them,” Robbie told her.  “This car’s only had five owners.”  He stroked the dashboard, “And everybody loved you, didn’t they?”  Marcie blinked.  He was talking to a car. She wasn’t sure how many more revelations about him she could take.

“We’d better go or we’ll miss the appointment with the real estate agent.”

“Sure,” he said.  He backed out of the parking spot and drove the vehicle up a ramp, out a security door, and onto Niagara Street.  He turned right and drove to Bathurst, and then turned left and went down to Lakeshore Road.  There was a lot of bicycle traffic, but little else.

He drove east along Lakeshore past condo building after condo building.  You couldn’t see the lake at all.  What a horrible way to travel. Then, he turned onto Bayview Avenue and drove north.  There was no one on the road.  Half an hour later, they jogged over to Leslie Street at 19thAvenue.

Not long after that, they turned left onto St. John’s Side Road.  Marcie kept her eyes peeled looking for Eastdown.  They came up to it fairly quickly:  a small building that had been added onto an old farmhouse.  The sign was understated; in fact, the whole place seemed unassuming, serene, quite pretty and neat, especially with all the greenery.  If the land developers earlier in the century had had their way, the whole area would have been full of subdivisions.  But, the Institute had been built on the Moraine, an area that was home to many species of animals threatened by the unchecked development at the time, not to mention the threat to the water supply for the whole of the city of Toronto.  Governments had stepped in to curb expansion, so even this close to the city centre, there were fields and meadows, no McDonalds anywhere.  But, somehow, despite bylaws and regulations, the Institute had been built recently on the site of an old farm and, subsequently, enjoyed the privacy of having no close neighbours.   There were maybe twenty PAs in a parking lot built for thirty and no one in sight except a security guard in the gatehouse.

For the benefit of anyone watching them, they continued west along the side road and turned off a few kilometres later in the centre of Aurora at a sign advertising a new condo development.  Robbie and Marcie went into the Presentation Office and sat through the complete sales pitch.  The places were large and sunny, but Marcie told the woman she wanted to think about it because she was addicted to downtown living.  They thanked the saleswoman and left.  So, if anyone asked, she’d taken the trip up to investigate real estate in Aurora – not on a case at all.

They drove back the way they came and Marcie got another look.  Nothing new to add, except she had a nice view of some gardens on the east side of the building.  They drove all the way back to the city, pulled into the underground garage, and parked the vehicle.

“Well, do you feel better?”

“It doesn’t seem like the kind of place where people are being held and tortured, Robbie.  It didn’t seem threatening at all.  It looks like a spa or a retreat.”

“On the surface.”

“Yes.”

“Well how far down does it go, sugar?  How deep?  There’s always a lot you can’t see.” Robbie the philosopher.

He got out of the vehicle.  Marcie followed.  He pulled a remote out of his pocket and activated his PA waiting on the roof. It would be ready and idling as soon as they got there.  Cool. They rode the elevator to the top floor and went out through a nice roof lobby.  They walked out onto the pad and over to Robbie’s PA.

Robbie and Marcie got into the vehicle and closed their doors.  Marcie sat back and prepared her stomach as Robbie said clearly:  ‘New York City’.  The PA lifted off but didn’t climb to the international lanes.  Instead, it headed off southwest in the slow lanes.  Robbie swore.  She’d never heard him swear before. 

Very few people knew how to commandeer a PA, and even fewer bothered to do it, because you invariably got the owner with the vehicle.  And that’s just no fun.  But in this case, they probably wanted the owner and his passenger.

Robbie spoke in a clear voice:  “Override, override.  RGALL15.”  The vehicle did not hover as it was supposed to during an ‘override’.  Robbie tried again.  “Override, override RGALL15.”  Nothing.  Voice activations had been turned off.

“What about the failsafe?”

“Disabled.”

“Well, I can crack it.”

“No you can’t.”

“Come on, I…”

“Can you see a keyboard anywhere, sugar?”

“Oh.”  They had taken the keyboard.

Marcie tapped her neck and said “Home.”  Nothing.  The signal was blocked.  For safety reasons, PAs could jam any radio signal but their own when necessary.  This feature ensured that the Control signal was guaranteed to get through in times of crisis.  But in the case of a hijacking, the feature is used to keep the inhabitants quiet.  It was an odd experience being trapped in a PA.  Marcie had never felt so helpless.  At least we’re not travelling in the direction of Eastdown.  Then, she thought about the guy with the slicked back hair and the gun and she felt even more helpless. 

Monday, June 28, 2083. 11:00 p.m.

They were in the air for five hours while the PA executed a series of small jumps.  Clearly, the kidnappers did not want the journey to be tracked by Control.  Control allowed no vehicle into anything but the lowest lanes without clearance which required on-the-spot identification of the pilot and confirmation of the pilot’s ID code and password – in part to verify the pilot’s ability to navigate the stream he was attempting to enter and in part to link the PA into the Control system, thereby guaranteeing that there would be no collisions.  Early in their history, PA collisions were common and, despite each PA being outfitted with its own parachute, some crashes had been disastrous, not only to the people in the air, but also to the third parties on the ground. 

So, obviously in order to avoid detection, this PA had been programmed to take the slow ride in the low lanes.  How they got past the border without pilot confirmation was a trick Marcie wanted to learn.  She would find out how their kidnappers did it later, assuming there was a later.  They came down finally in the middle of a farmyard, a few hundred feet from an old, greying, clapboard farmhouse. 

“We’re somewhere in the Midwest.  I’d guess Arizona, but I’m not sure.  I know the eastern seaboard by sight, but not out here.”  Without the keyboard or voice commands, they’d been unable to call up the nav system to follow their path.

“We could be anywhere.”

“No, that’s pretty dry out there, sugar.  Utah.  Arizona.  The Colorado hills.  Something like that.”

The vehicle set down lightly not far from a stately shade tree, popped its doors, and then powered down.  Though it was dark, they could see five people with shotguns covering every angle of the vehicle.  Robbie shrugged and got out, so Marcie followed.  You have to know when you’re beaten.  That way you get to live to fight another day.

“Over to the house,” said a twenty-something man in overalls and a checkered shirt.  He looked like he’d stepped out of a rustic painting.  They all did.  Robbie, Marcie and the PA were out of place in this scene.  The young man turned and led the way.  Robbie and Marcie behaved.  There were four other guns pointed at their backs.  They went up on the porch, opened the screen door which groaned just as one might expect, and went inside.  As they did, Marcie looked back and saw the PA being driven into an old weather-beaten barn. 

They came into a small entrance hall.  There were stairs going up in front of them.  To their right was a dining area and, judging by the good smells, the kitchen beyond.  Marcie’s tummy rumbled.  They hadn’t had a proper meal in a long time.  To their left, they could see a large living room in which every wall was lined with bookshelves.  They followed the young man down the central hallway past the stairs to the back of the house.  They came to a small hallway that led to the backdoor on one side and the kitchen on the other.  They did a one-eighty turn to access the cellar door.  The young man led them down the stairs into a basement, and then through a trapdoor, which stood open, and finally down a steep set of stairs into the cold cellar.  At least that’s what Marcie thought until the man turned on a light.  In front of her and between shelves full of potatoes, was a newish looking elevator door.  She blinked.

“This is what you get for asking a lot of questions,” said the man. But he wasn’t being unkind – in fact, he winked – and he was resting his rifle casually on his arm, probably relying on the shock to keep his lambs in check.  “I’m Jason.”

“Marcie Noel.  Nice to meet you,” Marcie mumbled.  Robbie was silent.  His face was a clean mask.  He was livid to the point of violence and trying to control himself.

The elevator arrived.  Marcie half expected it to ding, but it didn’t.  They stepped inside and Jason said clearly, “Level six.”

There were twenty buttons marked on the panel.  Twenty? ‘You never know how deep it goes.’  counted fifteen seconds before the elevator beeped the first level.  They stopped at Level 6 and the doors opened.

Marcie saw a small, bare anteroom with three reinforced steel doors, one on each wall – no signs, no instructions.  Jason turned left and punched in a code to open the door.  He walked through and Marcie followed with Robbie behind.  The corridor wasn’t long, maybe thirty feet, but there were six doors in it, two on the left, three on the right, and one at the end of the corridor.  They walked the length and went through the door on the end.  It opened onto a wide hallway, with dimmed lighting.  For the late hour?  Marcie didn’t know. 

They turned left and walked to end of this hallway, footfalls echoing on the tile floors.  The place had a bureaucratic feel, like an insurance company office.  They walked into an empty waiting room.  There was a large reception desk at which sat a young, professional looking man.  On the opposite wall, a few chairs were set up and there was a door that, presumably, led to the inner office.

They walked to the desk and the young man nodded at their escort and said pleasantly, “Jason, take them right in.  He’s waiting for you.”  The man hit a button on the impressive control panel on his desk.

“Thanks,” said Jason, as he walked past the desk.  Marcie was too nonplussed to say anything.  She didn’t feel like a prisoner, but she didn’t really know what to think.  She decided to play along and see what would happen.

Jason opened the inner door.  They walked in as a man of about fifty stood up behind his desk.  Jason gestured that they should continue in.  Marcie complied and Robbie reluctantly followed.

“So glad you got here in one piece,” said the older man as he walked around the desk to greet them.  There was something of the politician in him, but without the need to ingratiate.  “Dr. John Stellan, how do you do?”

Marcie shook his hand.  “Marcie Noel.  How do you do?  And this is Robbie…”

“McLean, yes, so happy to meet you Robbie.”  Robbie shook his hand grudgingly.  Marcie could tell he was still angry, but starting to settle down.  Clearly, they were in an extraordinary circumstance and his curiosity was piqued.  He was interested in seeing where it was all going.

“So,” said Marcie.  “Where exactly are we anyway?” 

“Well,” said Stellan.  “Sit down and I’ll tell you what I can.”

‘What I can’ read ‘all I’m prepared to tell you’.  Marcie decided to listen and watch carefully, but she didn’t think she was going to get the whole story.  She looked around Stellan’s office.  He had a large desk clear of personal mementos, and almost clear of paper.  A full wall of vidscreens and other electronic equipment was currently off.   

“Ms. Noel, Mr. McLean, welcome to Origin.  Do you prefer Grant, Mr. McLean?”  Robbie shrugged.  “No?  Origin is a large complex, one I hope you’ll take the time to get to know personally.”  Marcie said nothing.  She couldn’t commit to anything without hearing him out first. 

“Origin is a private research facility set up by a man named Harold Winter about eighty years ago.  Winter made a lot of money in pharmaceuticals, well, billions.  Near the end of his life, he became obsessed with ridding the world of disease.  He decided to set up an organization to do research.  Unfortunately, he was also a little insane.  He thought that the government, driven by other pharmaceutical companies, would try to sabotage his work.  So, this place is a secret.  And, it has remained a secret all this time.  We’ve worked to keep the research going, and we’ve not been unsuccessful, let me tell you. 

“But now, Winter’s fears have come true.  The government is after our secrets and our people.  We cannot come forward for fear of being rounded up ourselves.  We’re powerless.  We’ve been labelled a terrorist organization.  We are hunted by security forces in sixteen countries and, once caught, we are subjected to testing, stripped of any pretence of human rights.”

“Is that why you feel it’s okay to take away the rights of others yourself?”  Robbie’s voice was almost sarcastic.  Stellan looked down at his desk.  He had no answer.  Marcie decided to change the subject.

“You’re the group that uses a swastika as a signature?”

“Yes.”

“Not a wise choice.”

“I know, but Winter set it all up that way.  There’s an initiative to change it.”

“I think you should.”

“Maybe you’d like to tell us why we’re here?” asked Robbie in a controlled way.  He obviously wanted to keep them on topic.

Stellan looked at him directly.  “We shouldn’t have hijacked you.  Forgive us.  But our people have been watching you for about ten days now, ever since you were hired by Greg Pearce, and we felt you were going to be picked up by the other side soon, just like he was.”

“Fine.  Who has Greg Pearce?”

“The government, almost certainly,” said Stellan, “and just like him, the government would’ve let you rot in jail, or worse.”

“I have a good lawyer.”  Marcie was feeling a bit petulant.

“A good lawyer wouldn’t be able to help you. A good lawyer wouldn’t be able to find you and then a good lawyer would make a stink.  Then, he’d be rounded up just like you were, along with all your friends and family.  It’s getting dirty.”

“Fine.  But why are we here?”  Robbie again, very focused.

“Ms. Noel, you’re looking for Helen Pearce?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve been looking for her for over a dozen years.  She’s my niece.  For various reasons, I lost her when my sister and brother-in-law were killed in a car accident.  We sometimes have trouble keeping track of those who have left Origin.  My brother-in-law decided to move out when my sister found out she was pregnant.  He told me he didn’t want his daughter to grow up under black clouds.  Now, she’s in Eastdown and the sky couldn’t be any darker.  I mean to get her out.  You already know about the Institute?”

Marcie nodded her head.  “But there’s something else going on here, something you’re not telling me, Dr. Stellan.  I believe you when you say the government is after you, and I believe people are being rounded up.  We’ve been able to identify dozens of folks gone missing in the last few years.  But my investigation also tells me that these people are being sent to Eastdown and subjected to testing.  I might expect torture, perhaps, for their secrets, yes?  But no, even you used the word ‘testing’.  These people have no secrets, do they Stellan?  They arethe secret.”  Stellan remained quiet and Marcie continued on.  “You have to tell me the whole story, Stellan, or I simply can’t help you.  You may think that because you’re the enemy of my enemy, you’re my friend.  This isn’t always the case.”

Stellan sighed.  He suddenly looked like a man shouldering all the world’s cares.  “These people, Ms. Noel, my people, we’re different from the rest of the world.  But we pose no threat, Ms. Noel.  We mean no harm.  We’re still human beings, and we deserve to be accorded the same rights and freedoms of all human beings.  But we are not accorded these rights and freedoms.  We are jailed without trial.  We are subjected to disgusting experiments.  We all live in fear for our lives.”

Marcie licked her lips.  “How different?”

Stellan paused.  “I’m not supposed to divulge certain pieces of information without approval from a committee.  Hard for you to believe?  We believe that decision-making is stronger in groups.  But for various reasons, I haven’t been able to confirm permission to reveal our history yet.  I’m going to have to force the issue, though I’m sure she expects it.  Come with me.”  She?  Who’s she?

Unceremoniously, he stood and walked out of the room.  Marcie and Robbie followed.  They went to a new bank of elevators and Stellan said clearly:  “Elevator, down.”  The thing beeped.  Moments later, the elevator came and they stepped in.

“Elevator, Level 7.”  The elevator doors closed.  Stellan continued, “Marcie, we’re so secretive, it’s become a way of life.  And most folks are happy with the way things are and they see no need to change.  From their point of view, we have everything we need:  food, water, shelter, and power.  So they don’t see a need to share the information of our existence.  I didn’t bring you here lightly.”
“I don’t contest that, I…”

The elevator doors opened and the conversation paused as they stepped out.  Stellan turned back to Marcie.  “I’m sorry.  I know this is new to you, but I ask you not to debate but to listen.  We have so few guests here, Marcie, that everyone we meet knows you’re here, will recognize you on sight, knows your name and the names of all your staff back home.  They know where you live and a good many of them have probably memorized your phone code and your address.  Everyone here knows what you’re capable of, and everyone here will try to help you as much as they can.  We haven’t had guests here, Marcie, in over twenty years.  But I believe these are trying times. And, I believe we need new answers.”

Stellan turned around and walked to the end of a short hallway.  Marcie and Robbie followed.  Something was niggling in the back of Marcie’s head, like she was trying to make a connection.  They stopped at a reception desk. 

“Nancy, will you tell Alva I’m here, please.  Ask her if she has a few minutes, would you?” 

“Certainly, Dr. Stellan.  She’s expecting you, actually.” 

When Stellan turned back to Marcie and Robbie he had a wry look on his face.  “We’re at the offices of Origin’s Director of Operations, but mind, it’s a political title as well as an administrative one, so in effect, she’s our prime minister or our president.  We don’t hold elections like they do outside.  Our politicians and senior public servants are one in the same thing.  Alva Lew has been running this facility for almost twenty years.  She means to step down as soon as a competent successor is identified.”

“Then the new person will be appointed?’

“Elected, we call it, but it has much more to do with proven ability and competence to govern than it does about election campaigns.  Usually the person who wins is too busy working to actually campaign.  It’s all fought on the Reels.”  The inner door opened.  “I’ll explain later.”

A thin woman with olive skin and oval eyes emerged from the inner office.  She was impeccably dressed and moving very well for her obvious age – Marcie guessed she was around seventy-five.  “John, how are you?”

“Good, Alva, good.  Please, I would like you to meet Marcie Noel and Robbie McLean.  Marcie and Robbie, Alva Lew, our Director.”

“Yes, pleased to meet you.”  She didn’t really look that pleased.  “Come in, will you?”

She led them into her office.  Marcie noted with surprise that there was absolutely no ceremony, no pomp and circumstance associated with this meeting.  Wait a minute, who was Stellan that he could go visit the Director any time he felt like it?

The office was about twice the size of Dr. Stellan’s but not ostentatious.  It was warmer, without the banks of vidscreens and other toys.  They all sat looking at Alva Lew.  Age had taken its toll on a woman who was probably beautiful in her youth, but her eyes were still clear and bright.

“Alva, I’ve come to ask your permission to break protocols.”  Alva was already nodding.

“Yes.  I suspected as much.”  She spoke lightly, but in a resigned fashion.  “I will formally register my opposition, though I honestly don’t see any other option.  Not to worry, John.  You were the one who said this would happen.”

“Thank-you. Alva.

“Is that all, John?  I’m a bit weary and it’s late.”  She stood.  They all stood with her.  “You are welcome here Ms. Noel, Mr. McLean.  I hope you can help us.  John, you’ve probably forgotten to feed them.  Get them some food.  They might not have your energy or singleness of mind.”

“Yes, Alva.”

“You have yourself a nice night.” 

“Yes, Alva, thank-you.  Good night.”  Alva sat down and focused her attention on her paperwork.  The very short meeting was over.  Stellan looked at Marcie and Robbie pointedly.  Both mumbled their good nights and followed Stellan out of the room.

He said nothing as he led them back to the elevator.  Stellan must be important, but he has no escort, even with ‘guests’ from the outside.

They stepped into the elevator and Stellan said, “Level 19.”  Again, he fell silent.  The elevator made its journey and the doors opened.  “The Promenade Level.  It’s beautiful, no?”  He stepped out, but Marcie stopped a moment to take it all in.  She could see a huge atrium, certainly hundreds of feet wide and high. Around the atrium were rings of balconies, many alight with the soft wavering glow of candles or lanterns.  In the centre of the floor of the atrium was a wide road, down which many people were walking despite the late hour.  Some were browsing the few stalls left open, some going about their business.  A few small sleek, electrical robots buzzed this way and that.

“This is like a colony.  Only, it’s a colony on Earth.”  Robbie was shaking his head.

“I think Winter originally imagined that we’d live on the moon.  Though how he thought we’d all get there, I don’t know.  We’re completely self-sustaining.  We don’t even bring air in or vent pollutants out to the outside.  Don’t worry; we’re not an invading force, Marcie.  We’re human.  We belong here.  Come.”

They walked down The Promenade.  Everyone was aware of their passing.  Marcie noticed these people seemed taller than most.  Many were dressed in lively colours; others in neutrals.  A lot of the women were as tall as Marcie, and a large proportion of both men and women had curly or wavy hair.  Most people seemed to move gracefully, as if everyone on the street had studied karate the way she had.  There were folks of every colour and background.  Some of the men were massive, so Robbie didn’t look out of place as he often did on city streets.

Stellan walked purposefully to one of the stalls, which turned out not to be a stall at all, but an entrance to a restaurant.  Thank goodness. They walked up to the maitre d’.

“Dr. Stellan,” he said immediately, a smile on his face.  “You honour us with your presence.”

“Luke, I’m here almost every night.  You don’t have to suck up to me.”

“But Dr. Stellan, you don’t bring Outsiders here every night.”  He turned to Marcie and Robbie.  “Come in, come in!  Welcome, welcome!”  Luke herded them into the restaurant where a table waited for them.  Their glasses were filled with water, drinks orders taken, and menus left at each place with so much efficiency, it was almost surreal.  The menu listed some dishes Marcie had heard of and a lot she hadn’t. They were quiet as they all studied the menu, partially because Robbie and Marcie really had to study the menu and partially because Stellan was obviously not interested in talking yet.

They received their drinks, placed their orders, and then sat back.  Marcie and Robbie were uncharacteristically passive as they waited for Stellan to speak.  He finally did.

 “Well, I set my course today and the citizens will certainly have choices to make over the next few weeks.  Alva is dead set against what I’m doing here.  She believes the problem will resolve itself and she believes we cannot risk exposure to the outside.  She wants us to avoid direct confrontation at all costs.  I disagree.  It must’ve been hard for her to grant my request to fill you in.  I wish I’d had more time to go through channels.  I hate offending her.  She so treasures loyalty.”

Marcie sat back and thought.  Clearly, there were nuances of behaviour here that she could not yet read.  Just like in Tokyo.  She’d visited there once and been astounded at the number of protocols and rules, the inescapable formality of life in that city.  But Tokyo was a city like this one: built vertically, the concept of public space fuzzy at best, everyone crammed in.  One simply had to be polite.

“She didn’t seem upset to me,” Marcie said finally.

“Well,” said Stellan.  “Done is done.  And, now, I must tell you our big secret.”

“Okay, shoot.”  This from Robbie who clearly had had enough.

“We’re not homo sapiens.”

“What do you mean, you’re not human?”  Robbie didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused.

“We’re human, just not homo sapiens.  We’re a new species.”

Robbie said nothing but raised an eyebrow.  Marcie decided to hold her piece as well.  She felt frightened, but she was trying to grapple with that little voice in the back of her head.  Some important information was on the way.

Stellan continued:  “Winter’s strategies and experiments took us farther than even he ever imagined.  Around the turn of this century, more and more diseases were spontaneously crossing the animal/human barrier.  He had to get creative.  He started splicing genes, throwing in completely new compounds.  He finally produced people who could withstand illness, but in the process, he created a new species.  A new kind of human being.  We’ve taken to calling ourselves fortunatusbecause we’re luckier than sapiens.  The designation is a bit of a misnomer, just like sapiensmeaning ‘wise’, but it suffices as well as any other term, I suppose.  We differ from homo sapiensin many ways, but we’re as closely related to sapiensas the Neanderthal were.  We share about ninety-nine percent of our DNA with sapiens.  But we are different.  In general we collaborate better, we’re healthier, we’re taller, and, as I said, we’re luckier than sapiens.”

Marcie and Robbie were stunned to silence.  Political conspiracy, she could handle.  Greed, lust, stuff like that.  She was used to dealing in these things.  But this news was far bigger than any she’d heard in her whole life.  Stellan was respectfully silent.  Finally, Marcie collected herself.  She wanted to know more.

“What do you mean luckier?” asked Marcie.

“In a situation in which we have no information to guide us, we guess the right answer approximately sixty percent of the time.”

“A few hundred years ago, Carl Jung recorded that Man, I mean sapiens, guesses right about fifty-five percent of the time.”  This from Robbie.  Marcie turned to look at him.  Where do you pick up these things?

“Yes.  And our ability to guess right more often does give us an edge.”

“But this collaborative advantage must be incredible.  For example:  here, I see no street signs, no ceremony for VIPs, and most importantly, no tipping the maitre d’.”  She smiled.

Stellan couldn’t help himself.  He laughed.  “Yes, well, there’s no money in the first place.  Resources are allocated on an as-needed basis.  That’s all.”

Marcie nodded.  Astounding.  A new species of human.  I’m taking this remarkably well.  food arrived.

Marcie took a bite of the seafood salad she’d ordered.  “This is real crab.”

“Oh yes.”

“I thought you said you were self-sustaining.  Wouldn’t you have to fly this stuff in?”

“We have subterranean aquariums here, subterranean farms of all descriptions.  We’re not bothered about the seasons.  We continually grow what we need.”

Robbie was toying with his food.  “Let’s say we believe you about this new species thing.  Why are you telling us this?  Why do you expect us to help you?”

Stellan became serious.  “Well, we think you may help us because we think you’re one of us.  We think you both may be fortunatus.”

“Hmmmm.”  The back of Marcie’s brain went clunk.  It was something her father said once when she came home crying from school.  The kids were so mean sometimes that Marcie cried, not as much out of hurt feelings, but out of frustration.

“Why can’t everyone just get along?”  She had sobbed to her father as she sat on his knee.  She must have been five or six.

“Marcie, I want you to remember that you’re special.  That you’re different from your friends, and that you’re going to be a very special lady when you grow up.  Try not to let them bother you.  Honey, they don’t know any better and you do.”

Was her father hinting at the fact that the whole family was different?

“You’ve never been in hospital, have you Marcie?  You Robbie?”

They were both shaking their heads.

“Have you seen a doctor once a year?  A dentist?”

No.  Marcie had always enjoyed great health.  She thought it was good genes.  She hadn’t realized how good.  Stellan was nodding his head, knowingly.

“We also want you because, if we’re right and you are fortunatus, you’re unique for our race.  You’re both in violent fields.  You’re both well-versed and talented in areas that fortunatus usually are not.  We need you because we’re going to have to escalate things.  We’ve just recently received a communication that details the maltreatment of the people in Eastdown.  We can’t leave them there any longer.  So, we need you to break Helen, and all of the other inmates, out of Eastdown.

“We know you won’t commit to doing this unless you’re sure you’re one of us.  We can do the tests with just one drop of blood and a genetic analysis.  You can know in ten minutes.”

“You’re right.  I’d want to know for sure.”  But part of her already knew.


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Thanks for reading Chapter 4.  If you liked this chapter and want to encourage Jacqui to post more chapters and write more books, please click on one of the sponsored links on this page.  Thanks!

Jacqui Burke is a Freelance Director/Writer/Theatrical Teacher.  At time of posting, projects include:  Wrong For Each Other for Encore Entertainment, opening late March; and The Mayan Prediction, this years Toronto Homeschoolers Kidsplay, a one night only event, June 20.  Up to date information on Jacqui's projects can be found at her website.


Thanks, as always, to John for his ongoing support and Brenda for her ongoing inspiration.