STEVE KNOCKED ONCE on the director’s door, then turned the knob without waiting for a response. It was Sunday. Theresa rarely visited the White Center on Sundays, and yet they said she was in, meeting with Bill Hammond.
The door swung open and he took in the room with a single glance. The muted television on the wall was tuned to World News, flashing with chaotic images of the church bombing. Theresa was at the glass wall behind her desk, pacing. Bill sat in one of the two leather chairs facing her. They both turned as one.
For a moment, Steve tried to make sense of their blank stares.
“What’s going on?” He stepped in, suppressing the outrage that heated his face. “You told me you wouldn’t initiate another MEP attempt until Monday. It’s Sunday.”
“Good morning, Steve. You were there, you know exactly what’s going on. I’m glad you made it out.”
“That bombing has nothing to do with Rachelle or any decision to put her through the Memory Editing Protocol! If I didn’t know better, I might be tempted to guess you never intended to wait until tomorrow. By the time I got here, Rachelle was already under and prepped for the procedure. So please, what’s going on?”
Bill reached for a remote on the desk. The television’s audio blared to life. Sirens, smoke, video of people running from the damaged cathedral. Cynthia, the same World News reporter who’d interviewed Rachelle, was in a small callout box, exchanging reports with the anchor desk in New York. All indications pointed to terrorists, but no claims of responsibility had surfaced yet. The president had left the church five minutes before the bomb went off and was now in a secure location. Had the target been the church or the president? The scene was a frantic mess.
“I know,” Steve said, crossing the wood floor. “I was there. But again, this has nothing to do with Rachelle.”
“On the contrary,” Bill said, nodding at the television. “She was there.”
“So was I. So were a lot of people.”
“True. But they didn’t say this.” He pressed another button, and the images on the television rewound to a cutaway that had been aired earlier. Cynthia’s brief interview with Rachelle. The camera was close on her face.
“I think most religion preaches a form of false law, blinding people to who they actually are as the light. The law’s a system of fear and control based on punishment, because fear has to do with punishment. It’s like the sky in Eden. Something has to give or people will never be free to know who they really are.”
Bill paused the image.
Surely no one could think Rachelle had anything to do with the bomb.
Like toppling dominoes, other details fell in line. At first Steve refused to give them any significance.
“Rather abrasive comments, don’t you think?” Bill asked.
“Yes, that was unfortunate and unplanned. They’ve taken her comment out of context. Either way, I don’t see—”
“I received a call from Karen Willis an hour ago,” Theresa cut in. “She said Rachelle divulged classified information she had no way of knowing.” The director drilled him with a hard stare. “Not only did she read Karen’s mind, she spoke that mind.”
Steve threw up his hands. “She was expressing her struggle with religion. It has nothing to do with classified information!”
“I’m not talking about what was aired. I’m talking about what wasn’t aired. A comment about a program called StetNox. Sound familiar?”
His mind spun back to the question Rachelle had asked Karen: What’s StetNox?
“You’re saying Karen Willis ordered this MEP?”
The director turned to the glass wall and stared at the view of the city, cautious. When she spoke, her voice was tight, quiet.
“I’m saying I was given no alternative.”
“I don’t think you appreciate just how dangerous Rachelle is,” Bill said.
Steve shivered. It’s a setup. They’re going to pin this on Rachelle. The whole thing was a setup, not by DARPA but by someone else who feared far more than a bloodied nose from a girl saying inappropriate things. And he knew only too well that with the right spin, even the most absurd story could be made to sound perfectly reasonable.
Rachelle had been attending the cathedral for months now, at Theresa’s suggestion. They could say that Rachelle’s experience in Eden gave her ample motivation to hate religion. They wanted her to be filmed at the church, seated well out of danger. They’d fished for her views on religion, already knowing how she felt. They’d known when the bomb would detonate and what the damage would be.
And who were they? Vlad Smith?
He could be wrong, but it all fit into a frame that explained how and why they’d treated Rachelle as they had this whole time.
The only thing that didn’t fit was the MEP. Why attempt yet one more brain wipe now, immediately following the church blast? What did Theresa and Bill know?
Steve took a deep breath and sat heavily in one of the leather chairs, eyes on the television’s frozen image of Rachelle. He couldn’t betray his suspicions, but he had to know more.
“Okay, so let’s say the new MEP works. Her motor memory remains but she loses her historical memory, and with it, you hope, her psychic abilities. No more reading of minds.”
Theresa nodded. “She opened the wrong can of worms this time.”
But it had to be more than that.
“And if the MEP fails?” he asked.
“We cross that bridge if and when we get to it.”
Steve barely heard her. His mind was on Vlad. More precisely, what Rachelle had told him about how Vlad first poisoned David in the dream, then returned to this world to go after her.
Fact: Vlad Smith had penetrated Project Eden and was still at large.
Fact: While in Eden, his primary focus had been Rachelle.
Fact: In her confrontations with Vlad, Rachelle had regained her sight and found a way to vaporize the canopy over Eden.
Fact: David had died in his sleep while dreaming of the other world.
Fact: Rachelle had dreamed last night and awakened with details of that death.
Fact: Rachelle could read minds and make water boil from across the room. She was arguably the most valuable subject science had ever encountered. But rather than work with her, the powers that be insisted on wiping her mind.
Why? Because Vlad was pulling the strings and he wasn’t done with Rachelle. At least that’s how Steve was seeing it.
“Tell me again about the variance between this new MEP and the MEP from last week,” he said.
The answer was belated, from Bill. “The team is testing a new agent, still classified.”
“So now she’s a guinea pig?”
“Hasn’t she always been?”
Steve ignored the comment. If he did nothing, Rachelle would continue to be at their mercy. Knowing what he did now, he could no longer sit by.
“How long will the new protocol take?”
“Two hours. Another hour before she’s awake.”
Steve nodded. “Okay.”
The director studied him. Exchanged a glance with Bill Hammond. “This isn’t going to be a problem, is it, Steve?”
“My only concern is that she be treated as humanely as possible. She just lost her—”
“Her father, I know. In two hours she won’t have any memory of her father. It’s the most humane thing we can do for her.”
“Maybe. Assuming it works. Either way, I want to be the first face she sees.”
“Of course.” Theresa offered him a tired smile. “I know how close the two of you are. It’s the least you can do.”
No, it’s not, Steve thought. Not even close.