00:00:00:00:0
“SUNDAY MORNING, December 8th,” Dick says to my horror, and as if on cue, church bells start clanging. “It’s almost 1100 hours,” he adds.
“I’ve been here 4 nights?” I exclaim.
“Yes,” he replies from his wing chair as I twist and turn painfully, taking in the colonial reproduction furniture, the workstation with its Secret Internet Protocol Router Network (SIPRNet) phone for transferring classified data.
I can tell by the vague glow of a curtained window that it’s daylight and possibly too overcast for flying since I’m not hearing supersonic T-38 trainer jets or F-22 Raptor stealth fighters. We’re in corner suite 604 on the second floor of Dodd Hall, the Tudor-style officer’s quarters on the eastern shore of the peninsula that Langley Air Force Base shares with NASA.
The century-old lodging house tucked back in trees is where one would expect the likes of a general to stay when on business here. But Dick never did during earlier years, preferring to bunk down at Chase Place, my family’s home on the river. A frequent squatter (he would joke), he used to keep a jump-out bag and other personal effects in the guest room near the kitchen.
Hanging out with us in the peace and quiet of the farm while Carme and I were coming along, he’s not the sort to prefer pomp and circumstance, fuss or bother. Dick would rather eat Mom’s cooking, spending long hours talking with her in front of the fire or in the garden. Plus, he never stopped picking Dad’s brain, everybody’s brain, all sorts of ideas constantly flying around like crazed electrons.
“Whatever you decided to, quote, implement,” I let Dick know, “you could have discussed it with me first.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I assume Carme has been through this same implementation?”
“In stages. But yes, her Systemic Injectable Network, the original SIN, was implanted in her 6 months ago.”
“Appropriately named since our behavior and choices are about programming good and bad,” I add, trying to stretch my aching legs, and if I’m not mistaken, I have on a diaper.
“I’m sure you’re not surprised that there have been problems,” Dick replies, ensconced comfortably while I couldn’t be more disadvantaged. “The most serious glitches we’ve fixed, and other upgrades and patches are on the way. In a perfect world we would have waited a little longer before implanting the same SIN in you. Enhanced as it may be, I would have liked a little more time for troubleshooting.”
“And you didn’t wait for what reason?”
“It was now or never,” he says the same thing Carme did at the Point Comfort Inn. “Earlier this week, the project was cancelled after decades of top secret research and development. I’m sure you can imagine the danger of implementing a SIN in one twin and not the other,” he adds, and I can’t imagine Carme alone in this. “But DARPA, DoD have deemed it unethical to implant you or anyone else under the circumstances.”
I’m not sure what circumstances Dick means but he ignored the government’s directive, didn’t get the memo in time, so to speak. I was implanted anyway, not that I would have resisted had I been asked. Because he’s absolutely right that it would be wrong to install a SIN in one prototyped twin and not the other, and I wouldn’t dream of leaving my sister alone to her own devices.
“Are you hungry?” Dick asks.
“Yes,” and my stomach growls as I keep looking around, noticing the portable IV stand peeking out from a closet . . .
The black Pelican case on the floor in a corner . . .
The coil of yellow nylon rope and extra flex-cuffs on the kitchen counter . . .
The rolled-up sleeping bag next to the coffee table . . .
“Everything’s within normal limits, and that’s good,” Dick looks at his phone. “Except your blood sugar is hovering at just above 70 milligrams per deciliter, and that’s not optimal. In addition, you’re dehydrated, based on your electrolytes. Do you feel dizzy, shaky?”
“Yes.”
“Thirsty and irritable?”
“Yes.”
Reaching down, he picks up something by his chair, “While you’ve been here, you’ve been calling out Carme’s name.”
“Why wouldn’t I . . . ?” and I almost add, Since I was just with her.
But I stop myself, remembering what she said. That I’m too much of a Pollyanna when it comes to Dick and his big plan, his cause. Of course, he’s behind everything leading up to this or I wouldn’t be in his custody right now. But he can’t know for a fact how much I encoded of what I’m not meant to recall.
He doesn’t know the extent of my short-term memory loss, and how far back the tape was erased, so to speak. That’s not detectable like a fever, levels of glucose, lactate, carbon dioxide, a spike in adrenaline. It’s not as simple to read as the oxygen saturation of my blood, my pulse, or how vigorously I’m exerting myself.
What I do and don’t recall is safe as long as I don’t give myself away. That’s going to be hard when I’m used to handing over my intel like a free gumball machine. Whatever Dick wanted, Dick got, not costing him a penny.
“I’d like you to have a few sips of a Gatorade-like rehydrating drink if you won’t spit it all over me,” he gets up from his chair, inserting a plastic space straw into a silvery space bag labeled Lemon Punch. “Pretend we’re floating inside a spacecraft, an orbiting habitat, a laboratory,” bending close, placing the straw between my lips.
I suck in the salty, lemony drink like an astronaut in the weightlessness of outer space, hands-free, one sip at a time, and in the process, he’s preventing me from using food or beverage as a weapon. I have a good idea who came up with the solution. It’s pretty much straight out of one of Mom’s playbooks about self-reliance and problem-solving, doing what you can with what you’ve got.
“Nothing like improvising,” Dick says. “Although when I tried earlier, it didn’t stop you from spewing your drink all over me. Okay. That’s enough for now. I don’t want you getting sick.”
He doesn’t care if I’m still thirsty, and he sits back down, reminding me who’s in charge. Placing the drink bag on the floor by his chair, he picks up his phone again, no doubt glancing at data streaming from biosensors, nano-radios, chips, whatever is inside me.