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When Lars and Abe entered, all the catching up was just about caught up. Sano was kneeling before Perry Tuck, her figure glowing in the firelight, and she was delivering to him some chaga tea in a canteen cup. She draped herself over his lap, consoling him.
“He was a good dude, from Denver,” Perry Tuck said, sipping carefully. “Say, this is an interesting flavor. Just a solid dude, funny as hell when the time was right for it, sober-minded, but could go round-for-round after a week of miserable details. At the bar, you know.”
Lars pulled out his bottle of whiskey, pulling out the cork with a satisfying foomp. Perry Tuck’s eyes grew wide. “Why don’t you two drink a farewell toast to your friend Rojacamiseta?” Lars said, handing the bottle to Perry Tuck.
“Good ol’ Rojacamiseta,” said Perry Tuck. He took a swallow, then handed the bottle to Meredith Donaldson.
“Manuel Rojacamiseta,” Meredith Donaldson said, holding the bottle in the air. “Alpha male above the beta. The little red shirt.” He took a swallow. “Thanks, man,” he said, returning the bottle to Lars.
Lars replaced the cork and nodded.
“Well, we’re all betas, to be sure,” said James Thurgerson. “What generation are you?”
“At present, I’m Kilo-Echo-Two Beta Zero Dot One-One-One-Seven,” said Perry Tuck.
“I’m Kilo-Delta-Two Beta Zero Dot Twenty Dot Two-One-Two,” said Meredith Donaldson.
“A Delta?” said James Thurgerson. “Wow, you’re an old man, then.”
“Ha ha ha,” he replied, smiling. “Ages older than you Kilo Echoes.”
“Oh, I’m no Kilo-Echo,” said James Thurgerson. “I’m a Juliette-Echo.”
Perry Tuck gave a low whistle. “Wow, can you hear me way back there in the 1980s?”
Blake interrupted the high school reunion. “Do you mind terribly explaining just what in God’s name you all are talking about? Experimental updates and such?”
“Yeah,” said James Thurgerson. “These guys came in during the early 90s, and I’m an early 80s guy.”
“But you can’t be that old,” said Meredith Donaldson. “You’re our age: late 30s, right?”
“I think I’m thirty-eight, I think, maybe forty,” said James Thurgerson. “Depends on whether my mom is right about my birthday, or the government.”
“Well, you’re our age!” said Meredith Donaldson. “What are you doing with a Juliette-Echo? You must have been a baby.”
“I think I was eleven years old, the first time I went in.”
“What?”
Blake moved closer.
“Yeah, I didn’t go of my own free will. You know what it was?” He looked at Blake, laughing. “You’ll love this one, Blake. So, I was at the mall with my mom and dad, and a toy company, I forget which one, was marketing a soft football of some sort, a kids’ toy, right? And they asked my parents’ permission to take me into a room and ask me questions about the football. It was great: I got a free football, got to play with it, got to go to the mall.
“Once or twice a month we went back for questions and answers time: how often did I think I played with it; did I think about playing with it when I was in school; was it fun to play with it; did I dream about it; all sorts of questions, Blake, and then some deeper psychological stuff. For example, one day they asked me—and this one is so weird, so it’s burned in my kid memory: I’m almost certain this is not an implant; it’s coming out of a different section of my brain—they asked me, ‘James Thurgerson, as a child of an immigrant from east Asia, when you fondle this football, do you ever wonder if it could be used as a weapon of war?’ And I said yes! And I said yes because I had had those very thoughts while I played with the football. And let me tell you, I played with that football a lot—a lot.
“Then they asked a follow-up question, ‘Okay, James Thurgerson, tell us: when you imagine killing people with this football, do you regret your actions or do you believe there is nothing you can do about it?’ I said that I do not regret it, and there is nothing I can do about it.
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“They followed that question with this one, ‘Very good, James Thurgerson, did you accomplish your goal or did you do this for the fun of it?’ Now that was a great question, and I said, ‘Both.’
“As soon as I said that, the interview was over and I was sent home. Two months passed, and I was invited to another questions and answers time. We got to the mall, as usual, but this time, instead of us going to the room ourselves, a very tall, smiling, gentleman in a very smart suit took me from my mom, and he escorted me into the same room as usual. Suddenly, the mirrored window slid down, the man picked me up, and another suited man took me from him through that open window.”
“Mirrored window?” Blake asked.
“Yeah, man, like one of those in a police station, where the important people stand and listen, unseen, while the interrogation is going on.”
“Oh, oh, oh!” said Blake. “Yeah, makes sense. Go on.”
“Apparently my psychological profile came up in some school database, back in the early days of CIA computer-spying, you know; those early school mainframes were just begging for government intrusion.”
“Yeah,” said Blake. “Yeah…”
“The CIA flagged me, sold the database to some research corporations, and, well, they kidnapped me. I still had the football, though!” James Thurgerson smiled at the memory. “I kept that thing until it disintegrated.”
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“What happened?”
“That first time? Yeah, I got whisked through a dark hallway onto a pitch black elevator—scared me silly the first time it happened—and down, down, down we went, like a mile, I think.”
“Not a mile,” Jason interrupted, shaking his head. “Not a mile.”
“A very long way,” said James Thurgerson. “We got on a train and rode for about an hour—there were lights now, and I had my favorite Aladdin watch on. The alarm sang in Robin Williams’s voice: ‘It’s three past three, jolly are we, Ali Ababwa!’ It didn’t matter what time it was: it was always the same song, ‘It’s three past three, jolly are we, Ali Ababwa!’ I loved that watch. I still have it in a box somewhere, even after they implanted a timepiece in me.”
“Who did?” Blake asked.
“I told you already: I don’t know. It was all vanilla, remember?” James Thurgerson said.
“You didn’t bother to figure that out?” Perry Tuck asked while Meredith Donaldson looked on incredulously. “It was Royhahn Oil Conglomerate, formerly known as Calgary Expedition Services.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Blake. “Royhahn? The Chi-Can partnership? They own half of Parliament!”
“The very same,” said Perry Tuck.
“Huh,” said James Thurgerson. “That explains the CES logo all over everywhere, but I don’t see how knowing that changes anything.”
“How could you not want to know?”
“They were nice to me.”
“They were what?” exclaimed Perry Tuck.
“They gave me a football. I mean, seriously. No one ever yelled at me, unlike at school; I felt good after they worked on me; they made me feel safe with them. It was all fine, until…” James Thurgerson paused, looking up, trying to remember.
“…until what?” Blake asked.
“Yeah, it was hamburgers, pizza, hotdogs, NES, SNES—Super Mario Kart, bros, the best video game ever—and then one day the first implant. A little shot; I passed out; I woke up. Implant in my rectum.”
“What was it?” Umezawa asked. “Was it an antenna to call spaceships?”
James Thurgerson laughed. Blake smacked Umezawa lightly on the back of the head. Umezawa feigned hurt. James Thurgerson said, “No, it was a packet delivery, like the first payload of nanobots. Most of them failed right away, but a few of them successfully established a basis in me. Somewhere along the line they told me that one-percent of the first payload survives to this day.”
Perry Tuck interrupted. “But you were, what, eleven? Eleven years old?”
“Yeah,” said James Thurgerson, “eleven or twelve, maybe, by that time.”
“At least we volunteered,” said Meredith Donaldson. “I mean, we were still tricked, but at least we volunteered as adults.”
“I don’t get it,” said Jason. “What’s the point? This is a lot like alien probes, if you ask me. That’s why I don’t believe it: why probe the anus of the humans, over and over again?”
“You don’t believe it?” asked Blake, in utter disbelief. “After everything society has learned about the world conspiracy to control the government?”
“That’s right,” said Jason. “It’s entirely pointless. Alien probes are pointless. A Chi-com controlled Canadian conglomerate doing business in America—”
“—well, Minnesota,” said Lars.
“—doing anal probes is just as pointless, and, therefore, just as unbelievable.”
Perry Tuck answered, saying, “The difference is that the aliens thing is complete buncombe—”
“—it is most certainly not!” said Blake.
“—and the Canadian conglomerate is trying to create supermen to sell to the CIA.”
Blake started at that little link in explanation. “Wait,” he said. “What?”
“That makes perfect sense now,” said Jason. “It actually explains why the helicopter had a Canadian flag in it.”
“It did?” Blake asked.
“It did?” Lars asked.
“Well, I didn’t see that,” said Abe.
“Oh, absolutely,” said Jason. “I remember trying to tell you yesterday or the day before—I’ve lost track of the days. Doesn’t anyone know what day it is? —but I saw it as clear as anything: on the rear firewall, behind the gunner, the guy with the automatic rifle: a bright red and white Canadian flag.”
“Ohhhhhh…” said Blake. “That explains why the recovery effort is so amateurish: only the Canadians could be so arrogant as to send such amateurs.”
Lars said, “Or the CIA.”
“Fair,” said Blake, nodding his head slowly. “Fair.”
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