They all had their origin stories, but at the barracks they hadn’t told them unless you were trusted. Jeremy remembered that for Wright, the Intelligence Corps had entered his life when he needed to clarify. He was another uni student with questions, and he was stupid with big ideas.
His appointment, he thought, was to discuss the Cartesian shadow over Wittgenstein. He was only twenty, and he didn’t know anything, so he was nervous, and he didn’t know anything so he was not nervous enough.
The artifact. You touch it, and it becomes part of your world. There is the moment of connection, the moment of interception, when the hold goes both ways. The professor opened his desk. He slid an old copy of Rose and Laurel across the table. Wright’s hand went to it, unthinking, his body already pliant to command.
“Do you know who issues this publication?” the professor said. “This is the publication of the Intelligence Corps. Maybe you’d be interested. They’re interested in you.”
The boy Wright held the magazine with both hands. His hands would have been delicate on the turning corners, worn to paper suede.
Now Jeremy thought of that boy. He thought what if that boy had never taken that philosophy course? What if he’d dropped out sooner?