Sed Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?

(Who Watches the Watchmen?)

Part II

By Bill Wolfe

Nightwatch created by Jeff Williams

Developed by Jeff Williams and Robert Moriyama

Part I synopsis:

Tom and Simon find themselves face-to-face with a real life mind reader. But he's not alone. He is the representative of an entire subculture of psychics who can trace their history back for millennia and they call themselves the Collective. Needless to say, none of these folks ever answered the phones for the Psychic Friends Network®.

But this psychic has a problem and needs the Nightwatch Lower Echelon's help. Seems the Collective has lost their most powerful psychic to come along in generations. He's young, angry, confused. . .and oh yes. . .he has kidnapped some of the world's best technical experts and is making them build a psychic amplifier which might just allow him to control the minds of thousands.

Prelude. . . . . . .

Stephanie Keel was dreaming about her best friend. This friend had never let her down, never lied, never inflicted pain, humiliation or, worst of the worst. . .pleasure. This friend offered resolve when the odds were against her. This friend supplied strength when she was weary or spent. This friend infused her with the courage to stand firm when all she wanted was to curl up in the corner and. . .surrender. The only downside to her relationship with this friend was the shame. She was ashamed to be seen with her friend. And she was ashamed of what she sometimes did when she let her friend take the lead. Stephanie Keel dreamt of her constant companion, an ever present, palpable force that she tapped into when needed, and pushed away when she did not. She dreamt of Anger.

Sleep was rarely the comfort for Stephanie that is was for most. Rather than provide a few hours of respite, it too often represented another plunge into the chaos of memories that she did not deserve to have. When she was awake, at least, she had some portion of control over what her mind was up to. She could throw herself into her work, her studies, her hobbies and most importantly, her training. Krav Maga had helped her in more ways than she could count. Arguably the most brutal of the marital arts, it boosted her confidence immensely that. . .no matter what. . .she would never be helpless in the clutches of another human being. And the training also helped her to be able to focus her mind to shut-out all manner of external distractions. Part of the basic regimen at her level was sparring against up to three, highly padded opponents with blaring music, strobe lights and a fog machine all going at full blast.

Her instructors now were all Israeli military—all on active duty and assigned to their embassy in Washington—and most of them had trained as children under the developer of the art, Imi Lichtenfeld. A few even still referred to it by its original name of KAPAP, which was an acronym for Krav Panim Al Panim, face-to-face combat. Though doubtful at first, all of her instructors had been awed by her determination, dedication and focus in learning both the physical and the mental aspects of this most demanding martial art. More than a few of them wondered—some aloud and some only to themselves—if they would be able to survive an all-out assault from her if she were really serious. Several demanded extra padding when sparring with her because the very compactness of her frame meant that the force of her blows was more focused, more painful, more deadly. It had served her well, except in her dreams.

Too often, in her dreams she was back in Gryphius's vault. Not even Simon knew what had really happened in there, though he thought he did. She had never told anyone what William Gryphius was trying to accomplish during the four months she had been held by him. His copious and meticulous computer records, both text and video had been destroyed utterly the moment that the inner sanctum had been breached. Stephanie knew this well, for it was she who set up the fail-safe system of disk purging and degaussing. Even then, barely out of college and more naïve than most, she was a formidable programmer. One of the few things in life that she was sure of, was that what had happened in that chamber of horrors, was preserved nowhere but in her own damaged mind.

That anyone else could have access to her deepest secrets was unthinkable. The carefully wrought kluge that was her psyche, her persona. . .the new-and-improved Stephanie Keel. . .would tumble to an irrevocably jumbled tangle of inchoate junk if anyone truly found out how Gryphius had changed her. For the mad genius had been more than just a garden-variety psychopathic sexual sadist. He was also a scientist, and a good one. Every lash of the whip, every wisp of smoke from seared flesh had a purpose toward Gryphius's final goal.

Gryphius never called his sessions with Stephanie torture, though they were. He called it neither rape nor sodomy, though it was both. And he didn't call it science, but he should have. He referred to it as training, which was as accurate a description as any other name for it. But wasn't Stephanie that he was teaching new tricks, it was her brain. Lost amid the other blood and scabs and scars were tiny holes he had drilled into her skull. They had never been noticed by any of the many medical personnel who tried to mend her battered body when Simon brought her to one of Nightwatch's secure trauma centers.

Since her recovery—if her willful, determined, reassembly of self could be called that—she had learned enough about brain physiology to know what he had been aiming for. By overloading certain areas of the brain, stimulating some and anesthetizing others while simultaneously causing immense pain and humiliation. . .he was trying to create his perfect mate. He was learning how to teach the brain to interpret pain as pleasure. We are nothing but meat machines, really. The signals that go to the brain bear only information. It is that large neural cluster encased in rigid bone which determines what that information actually means. An unexpected ice cube to the back of the neck may feel like a hot poker for a moment. . .until our meat-based signal processor sorts out what the sensation truly is. But if you're expecting an ice cube, that's what your brain will tell you has just been pressed to your skin.

Gryphius was very simply tired of the whimpering, the crying, and the begging for him to for the love of God please STOP! Like any man, really, he simply wanted his lover to ask for more, plead. . .for more. . .to beg and whine and manipulate and seduce him to do it again, only harder. In his twisted mind, there was something wrong with the female population in that they simply didn't enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. He had quickly tired of those who called themselves masochists. They were liars, all of them. They didn't want him to actually do the things that exited him. He had chosen his early efforts from this group but he quickly found that their so-called desires to be dominated and punished were mere artifacts of some earlier trauma or mistreatment. Their minds and bodies were so sullied by their pasts that the data for his experiments, his training sessions, was highly suspect. It was just too inconsistent and contaminated.

So he decided to start with a clean slate. And he found the perfect template in a bright, young, fresh college girl with a sunny disposition, a quick mind and a robust metabolism. Though she exercised only occasionally, her muscle tone and general health were extraordinary. With a little care not to damage anything important, that sweet body of hers would take a considerable amount of damage before it shut down.

And it had. What Simon saw when he burst through the door and splattered Gryphius's brains over half the Plexiglas panel behind him, didn't look like a living thing, at all. Stephanie, strapped to that musky bed in the room that smelled of blood and bleach, semen and sanitizer. . .looked more like a cadaver from a badly botched autopsy than a living person.

But what Simon didn't know, what nobody knew. . .was that Gryphius had largely succeeded with his training. The broken, bloody mess that he rescued that night had not been crying out in agony only moments before. Her screams and writhing had been from the most intense, exquisite pleasure that any human being could possibly tolerate. And she hated it. She despised the fact that her traitorous brain had, in fact, learned to process neural input in this manner. In many ways, she longed for the time when these sessions had left her whimpering in abject agony. Back then she could hate only the beast who had inflicted this horror upon her person. But by the time she was rescued, there was another presence with her and Gryphius in that bed. A third party had joined in the tableau, who grew stronger with every sting of the strap, every sizzle of hot metal on sensitive skin, and every invasion of every orifice by whatever object was handy. The last in this sadistic ménage a trois was Stephanie's overwhelming Anger. She was mad that he had succeeded, mad that it felt so incredibly good. . .and mad that she was starting to like it. She was angry at her own anticipation when she heard his footsteps outside the chamber and she was angry that Gryphius didn't seem to notice it. And then, of course, she was angry again at herself for even considering all the things she was feeling.

She was even mad that someone—Simon—had burst in and put an end to it all with only the briefest of warnings. She looked at him from her supine position, strapped to that horrible bed, and she hoped that he would turn the still-smoking gun on her, next. And when he didn't, when his eyes flashed first in horror and then in relentless compassion. . .well, she was angry about that, too.

So, over a decade later, Stephanie Keel slept, but did not rest. Her dreams were of Anger. During her sparring today against two opponents, a precisely-timed head butt had snuck through her wearying defenses and nailed her on the chin, knocking her to the floor. Her helmet chinstrap had absorbed much of the shock but she had bitten her tongue, badly. The pain had been unexpected, intense. . .and had triggered a sexual climax that left her gasping on the floor, unable to move or defend herself, or to attack the ankle that one of her opponents had carelessly placed within reach of her knee. She should have been able to take at least one of her attackers down, but her own miswired brain had betrayed her, again.

Of course, the instructors merely thought that the shot to the chin had rattled her, perhaps even knocked her semiconscious for a moment. It would explain the twitching and gasping, which they'd never seen from this student. They didn't know what had really happened, or what it meant. Nobody knew. Nobody could ever know.

Stephanie slept alone in her bed with her Anger. She slept out of abject weariness and physical exhaustion from a day spent focused on work, focused on the tasks at hand and making sure that tomorrow, there would be more tasks lined up for her. She slept to rest a body pushed to its limits and a mind that sought out the most demanding, infuriating and complex problems to solve that could be found or invented. Anything that kept her mind and body active, focused, and most of all. . .busy, was fair game for Stephanie Keel. She slept when her body demanded sleep. It was her only down time. She slept because she had to. And she slept secure that her dreams and memories were her own, kept safe and sound inside her head where she, and her friend Anger, could control them and keep them from prying eyes. She had proven time and time again that she could bear almost anything.

It had almost happened, once, with an ethereal creature that called himself Massoud. And though he was gone now—perhaps dead, perhaps not—sometimes in her dreams she remembered what he had said.

“If you think you’re going to lay a hand on me--,” she sneered.

“Lay a hand on you? I would not touch you after what Gryphius did to you!”

Stephanie flinched but held her ground. Massoud continued, “And yet you begged for his attentions, long before your stay in his chamber. He taught you the ways of a jezebel. How you crowed with false power! How you preened with perverted womanhood!”

“Go to hell,” whispered Stephanie. Tears began to flow from the corner of her eyes. Her trembling hand grasped the table next to her, her knuckles white.

“And at first, you thought it a game. You enjoyed it! But even when the pleasure turned to torment, even then, a small part of you discovered ecstasy.”

“That’s not true!” she screamed, her fingers pulling her hair, her eyes shut, as she sat crouched on the floor.

“You deny what your body felt?” he mocked.

The Sin Watcher had undoubtedly known her true secret. However, when he used his abilities as a weapon, he had twisted the facts to make his assault more brutal, more damaging. But in this case he miscalculated. Stephanie's true fear was always that people would find out what she had become, not what had happened to her. She feared that her friends would find out about what thoughts passed through her mind now, when she felt desire. It tortured her to think of the looks on their faces if they were ever to find out what she longed for from a lover, whomever he may be. If the Sin Watcher had used just a slightly different tact, he may have succeeded that awful night in the English wilds.

Her psyche survived that close call, but only because of her Anger at the moment, and also because there was nobody in the room who really mattered to her. It also helped that of the two human witnesses to this very close version of her shame, one was dead before that night was over and the other had gone quite mad. After his experience, he began ranting about demons and angels, nephilim and jinn; until there was no choice but to institutionalize him.

But in her wildest nightmares, she never dared to imagine that the people she cared about would ever, ever find out what kind of monster she had become.

Even her Anger was no match for that!

# The Present #

In the end it had been Tom's idea—which he too, hoped nobody he cared about would ever learn—to simply wipe out Simon's recent memories and start from scratch. Agarwal had told him that Simon had caught on right away to Callow's strange behavior and had decided much the same thing that Tom had. His control pod had barely reacted in time to save Agarwal from a one-sided lesson in Aikido. But from the beginning he had fought them harder than any human in modern history. The little man was spare with the details, but he was obviously impressed to the point where he was beginning to doubt that they could work with Simon, at all.

Tom, however, felt that Simon's participation in this would be critical. An eminently practical fellow, he decided that since their memories were supposed to be altered at the end of this little mission, a little more preemptive tinkering with Simon’s psyche might not add too much insult to the injury. And besides, he had the beginnings of a few ideas about how he might be able to thwart the Collective's plans.

So they ordered dinner. Tom was assured that while Simon was unconscious, the psychics would use the 'overlay' they had been developing to update his memory with the scenario concerning the false confrontation with Callow that Agarwal had described, earlier. Simon would remember only that after Callow left—making sure to twice mention the dedicated charge number—Simon and Tom and their 'customer' had briefly discussed the missing technical experts from several corporations and research facilities and had then decided to order dinner.

Agarwal assured him that they would use every resource in their arsenal to try and make sure Simon was open and agreeable to the pitch. Now that his control pod knew what kind of resistance he could put up, they had a healthy respect for his abilities and a strong motivation to use only the lightest touch when reinforcing his decisions.

But much of the burden now lay in Tom's court. It was Callow's bizarre behavior that had triggered Simon's defensive stance the first time. Tom knew that the stakes—in more ways than one—were high and hoped that he was up to the task of slowly introducing Simon to the whole idea that their thoughts were being monitored. He just didn't know how the whole thing would play out. The trick that the Collective had decided to use for Simon's reintroduction to the conversation sounded fascinating. But it might just work.

#The Past #

Pasteel, I just can't do it. The woman who called herself Gypsy, was almost in tears. I've never seen or felt anything like this. If I had to make a guess, I would have to say that whether she was before, or not. . .now she is one of us.

Try to stay calm, Mrs. Petulengro. Please. The gentleman on the far side of this five thousand-mile psychic link was busy trying to navigate Hong Kong traffic in an aging Toyota Echo. If he had any sense, he would have either pulled over to continue the discussion or would have asked Gypsy to call him back, later. But time was running short if they were going to be able to stop this miserable comet before it ended all life on the planet. He knew Nightwatch's help would be critical to their efforts but one of the most important people in the organization was completely unreadable. Without Stephanie Keel and her amazing computer skills, they could still lose this race with time.

"See what you can do about clearing us a space so that I can concentrate." He spoke this aloud to the boy securely belted next to him in the front seat of the tiny car. "But be gentle, little one, gentle." The dazzling dance of small cars, bicycles and mopeds in and out around him seemed to slacken considerably, as the boy started nudging the minds of all the drivers around them to make other decisions. Decisions that wouldn't take them so close to the little grey car.

Mrs. Petulengro, there is nobody more able than yourself to work with her. You've seen through Doctor Litchfield's eyes what he found in that terrible place. Surely you've encountered much worse from your work in Africa and Iran. You've helped so many women and children who must have been brutalized at least as badly as this poor girl.

He stifled a sindhi curse as a man on a smoking Vespa cut across four lanes and missed the front left bumper of the Echo by inches, and that only after Agarwal had swerved while braking hard. The man was wearing the full regalia from Rebel Without a Cause, right down to the wire-rim sunglasses and the seaman's cap. The only anachronism to the picture was the tiny motorcycle and the ubiquitous cell phone the fellow was holding up to his ear.

Beside him, he felt the boy stiffen and then go quiet. It was the unnatural quiet of a hastily-placed mental shield. Glancing out the window to his left, he watched impotently as the little Vespa swerved directly into the base of a street light. The driver managed to fling himself to the side a moment before impact, sending him tumbling on the crowded sidewalk, knocking down two or three unlucky pedestrians.

Though he knew he would have to chastise the boy for this behavior, he was secretly pleased. A year or two earlier the boy might have sent the unfortunate fellow under the wheels of the biggest truck he could find. To him, any type of attack was to be answered in kind.

But Pasteel hadn't time to address this, now. Gypsy was still sobbing and there was a very private meeting in a Hong Kong hotel that he and the boy were going to have to crash. These short-sighted captains of industry, these pillars of the community, were meeting to discuss the best way to divert some of the massive funds dedicated to the construction of a space fleet to their own ends. All of these men had a few doubts as to whether this was truly the time to line their already bulging pockets, but old habits are hard to break. Agarwal and the boy—in one of his first field assignments—were going to make sure that each of these corporation leaders left the meeting feeling stupid, and a little ashamed at what they had been planning. It would take a fairly delicate touch, but it could be done. It must be done. . .

Have you seen what she can do with a pile of worthless junk and some tools? Gypsy asked, seemingly at random. But Agarwal had been watching the watchmen for some time and yes, he knew what she was talking about.

I have seen it.

She has the uncanny ability to assemble something. . .something that works, from a jumble of different, broken parts. Gypsy was beginning to calm down, finally. Pasteel. . .I think that is what she has done with her mind.

Agarwal thought about the woman's words for a moment. So it is more than just a trauma-induced psychic shield. Is that what you're saying? Once she had said the words, the whole thing started making sense. Any time he had tried to even eavesdrop on Stephanie Keel's thoughts, he had been rebuffed in a way that both frustrated and confused him. But this kind of delicate work with people who had suffered this much was never one of his strong points.

I think that she has rebuilt her working psyche out of whatever spare parts and pieces where left when she was finally released from that awful place. Gypsy continued. It works, apparently, but even though I can easily get through her mental shield by force, I wouldn't be able to do anything once I was there. It isn't structured like any other mind because it is propped up with the equivalent of baling wire and duct tape. One false move on my part and the whole construct might just come apart. Permanently.

I see, Agarwal answered. And it seemed perhaps he actually did. Miss Keel's brilliant mind was an elaborate house of cards sealed in a Plexiglas box. It wasn't unbreachable, but one wrong move and whole thing would come tumbling down, never to be the same, again. He made a decision.

Thank you for your efforts, Mrs. Petulengro. Somehow we will find a way to work around this obstacle. He didn't notice that the boy beside him, who had been following the conversation, was silently fuming. The very thought that the Collective would allow even the risk of harm to some rich Americana, interfere with saving the lives of everyone was absurd. Had they no idea how many were going to die even if this plan worked?

# The Present #

The cue was unmistakable. Tom and Agarwal had propped Simon back in his chair, refilled his wine glass and awaited Gillian's hearty, rapid knock on the door. Dinner had arrived.

As Tom moved to the door, Simon yawned, hugely. The psychic had explained that the false memories would end in a yawn, and then a real yawn would be triggered by his control pod. Apparently, a yawn is a pause in most people's mental workings to the point where they have to kind of 'restart' their line of thought from the point where the yawn interrupted them. If you add to that some new input like the arrival of dinner and the preparations therewith, it usually works to transition the person back into consciousness without any detectible break. It was a trick that the Collective had used before, and Tom was committed to—next time—paying attention to how his own yawns distracted him from what he was thinking or doing, before. He considered making some notes about this and perhaps writing an article for one of the psychology journals. He hadn't published in a while since most of the new and exiting work he had been doing would have been classified.

Agarwal said that the control pod would increase Simon's hunger a little, as a further distraction, but Tom's own appetite needed no augmentation. He was famished. He had elected to go for the grilled chicken salad but Agarwal had all but demanded the lobster bisque. Agarwal assured him that Simon, too, had been thinking of the bisque—and strangling Ian Callow, of course—all evening until he had walked into the room and noticed his boss's strange behavior.

As Gillian and a waiter bustled about, setting places and refurbishing drinks, Tom tried to surreptitiously watch Simon's reactions and body language. Simon seemed a bit out of sorts, perhaps a little confused, but seemed to be settling into the scene, nicely. It seemed that maybe these folks knew their business, after all.

Though it was getting late, Tom noticed that neither Gillian nor the waiter had mentioned that they were pushing it, as far as ordering dessert might be concerned. He did notice the waiter absently scratching the back of his head in a movement that he feared he would become all too familiar with.

In no time, the three were again alone and were tucking-in, with gusto. Agarwal's appetite was nothing to sneeze at, but Simon seemed to barely be able to control himself. He was shoveling it in faster than Tom had ever seen, since Simon was a man of impeccable manners and refinement. He felt an odd sensation through the tiny tickle in the back of his mind and resisted the urge to scratch the back of his head. Almost immediately, Simon paused and wiped his mouth, he gave a kind of sheepish grin to his table mates and then resumed eating in a manner much more like himself.

Tom thought about this for a moment and wondered if his control pod hadn't taken his observation and somehow transmitted it in toto to the apparent mob of folks who were keeping tabs on Simon. In a very subtle way, he felt a kind of subconscious nod through his link. Somehow, it was more like he was merely sharing a room with these folks rather than some kind of mental invasion of his privacy. He knew he should hate what was happening to him but both the uselessness of fighting it and the abject fascination he felt for the whole process seemed to be combining in such a way that he was quite at ease with what was going on. He suspected that he had been tweaked in this direction, but he also hoped that all they really did was add another voice to an internal dialog and urged him in a direction that was one he may have gone, anyway.

Finally, the last plate had been scraped clean with the delicious, freshly-baked bread that the Cannon Moon should have been famous for. As if by magic—though it really could have been the proprietress's well-honed service skills—she reappeared with a sampler selection of desserts, a pot of coffee and a smaller pot of tea. Gillian seemed a bit distracted as she and the waiter cleared the plates and got them all set up for some serious discussion. But Tom was watching Simon more closely, now. Simon's eyes never left Gillian for more than a glance in any other direction. He sat up straighter and used a softer, more gentle voice with her than he did with anyone else in Tom's experience. Tom realized that Simon's feelings for this woman were much stronger than he had imagined. And it was abjectly obvious that the she felt the same toward him.

And yet both were keeping their distance. He wondered if both were merely afraid that if they acted on their feelings, they would risk losing the close bond of friendship that they both badly needed. And he wasn't sure they were wrong. Neither had much trouble starting 'regular' romantic relationships, but deep friendships like theirs were much more valuable, and rare. An odd thought struck him and he subvocalized an order to his watchers. Don't you folks dare use my thoughts to—in any way—alter the relationship between these two. I mean it, people, these are two grown adults and they deserve the chance to make whatever mistakes or triumphs they can, for themselves.

Through his link with his pod, he felt another unvoiced nod. Good. This was starting to feel much more like a partnership and less like being a trained dog on a leash. Now for the tough part. Convincing Simon to play along with this little charade. And he thought he might just have an idea for the kind of compromise that Simon could live with.

"There's something really strange about all the people you've lost, Mister Agarwal." Simon was sipping coffee as he studied the dossiers that were now spread over almost the entire table.

"Just one thing?" Tom answered. "I can see several oddities without even trying."

"Let's hear yours, first then, Tom." Simon replied. "I want to gather my thoughts a little more. I'm not feeling quite myself, for some reason."

Tom tried to forget all that he already knew and begin as if he was learning all of this from scratch. Fortunately, he was a past master at role playing and could slip in and out of the moment with relative ease.

"First of all, there's the fact that none of these folks seem to have been taken by force." Tom began. "For the most part, it seems as if they just wandered away from their jobs, their families and their entire life. None took a passport or any extra cash—as far as these documents go—and though the police work is somewhat inconstant, these folks don't seem to have spoken to anyone about going anywhere."

"Mister Agarwal," Simon began. "Do we know if any of these individuals were in any kind of trouble with their respective organizations?" He had started rearranging the files in some kind of order. Tom couldn't tell from where he sat what the distinguishing characteristic was that Simon was sorting for.

"There were one or two. Uh. . .Dawkins and Heath, I believe, who had recently been reprimanded for fairly trivial offenses." He paused, as if searching his memory, but Tom suspected that somebody else was doing some research, elsewhere. "Ah, yes," he continued. "Mister Dawkins was also a part-time math teacher for a local community college and had been using his company's photocopier and paper to make-up the tests, syllabi and other classroom documents."

"And I believe that Mister Heath got into some trouble about misuse of his office computer. Websites of questionable content during company hours, or something like that." Agarwal paused, Tom thought he had been convincing enough as far as it went, but because he was watching for it, he could see that what Agarwal had done was more than just simple recall.

"Questionable as in secrets to the Chinese embassy?" Tom interjected. "Or was it more along the lines of hefty women in compromising positions?" None of this information had been in the files.

"The latter, I believe," Agarwal answered with a smile.

"Nothing else?" Simon asked. He was almost finished sorting the files. "Nothing at all?"

"No. There were no other work problems for any of these individuals. A few were up for promotion or tenure and one of them had just accepted the role of project lead for a new technology line that he not only developed, but had been lobbying in favor of for quite some time." Agarwal's answer had been immediate.

"Funny that you could be so sure about that, Mister Agarwal." Simon was looking thoughtful. "I mean, most of us would have qualified our statement in some way." Simon placed the last of the dossiers on the table in the order he had determined was significant. "Most of us, in fact, would assume that no matter how the paperwork was prepared, there would be something that had been left out, whether by accident or to cover up problems or even merely because it had been deemed too trivial to mention. But not you. How very curious that is."

And with that Simon shifted forward in his chair and placed his hands loosely on the top of the table. Tom thought fast and subvocalized a message to his control pod. Whatever you do, don't allow Simon's control pod to freeze up his muscles like they did last time. And warn Pasteel not to react aggressively, no matter what Simon does next. This is important. . .GO! He wasn't sure if there was a silent affirmation of his warning, or not, when Simon moved.

In a fluid and seemingly effortless motion which would have been more in place in a Hollywood special effects studio than in real life, Simon shifted from his chair, pivoted on one foot and sent his open palm rocketing towards Agarwal's face. At a millimeter from the fellow's nose, his hand arced up and deftly closed around something that had been crawling—unnoticed by anyone else in the room—atop the stocky man's head. If Indian gentleman's hair so much as moved, Tom was unable to tell it. Simon slowly brought his closed fist down to within a foot of the surface of the table and opened his hand. In the center of his palm and completely unharmed, was a small brown spider. Tom was pretty sure he recognized it as a brown recluse, one of the most dangerous spiders common to the DC area. It was possible that Simon had just saved the fellow some pain, if not his life. Tom wondered why Simon was handling it with such callous disregard for its venomous bite.

"Simon," Tom was trying to remain very calm. "You know what kind of spider that is, don't you?" Tom was not fond of spiders, in general, but he had a healthy respect for the brown recluse. He had seen some mean scars from their bite. The brown recluse venom simply kills all the tissue in the immediate area leaving a huge gaping crater in the flesh. It's nasty, painful and more than a little dangerous.

"Yes I do, Tom," Simon answered evenly. "Do you know what it is, Mister Agarwal?"

"I believe it's a male of the species Kukulcania hibernalis, commonly called the southern house spider. Not very venomous, but often mistaken for another, much more dangerous arachnid called a brown recluse." The stocky man had remained completely calm throughout the whole process, and seemed to be closely studying the spider that Simon had presented to him. The little bugger hadn't moved since Simon opened his hand. It almost looked like it was playing dead.

"It's a bit North for this fellow," Simon continued. "But he's not unheard of, around here."

Tom was greatly impressed with both Agarwal's aplomb and with his knowledge of the local fauna. . .until he remembered that the little Indian was in constant mental contact with a cohort of psychics who were presently reading Simon's mind. "Of course," he scolded himself. "These guys would know what Simon was thinking and had probably relayed the information while Simon was still formulating the sentence in his mind."

"Did I pass whatever test you had in mind, Doctor Litchfield?" Agarwal was now looking at Simon much as he had the spider, just before. "And I do hope that you don't plan on killing the poor fellow. I fear that Miss Eckelberry would be quite upset and after that magnificent repast, I feel a debt of gratitude towards her that merely settling our account for this evening could never repay."

Simon seemed to consider the other's words for a moment and then gently placed the spider on one of the surrounding rough wooden shelves. Tom flashed on a scene of Gillian, stoutly chasing little brown spiders into a paper bag so she could deposit them outside without harming them. He stifled a small chuckle until he remembered how much the thing had looked like a brown recluse. He wondered if Gillian knew the difference as well as Simon. If she were to mishandle the wrong small brown spider. . .

male southern house spider brown recluse

Kukulcania hibernalis Loxosceles reclusa

Would you like us to make sure that she knows? It was the voice of a young woman sounding timid, unsure. For a moment Tom wasn't sure who had spoken.

We can make sure that someone mentions it to her. Or maybe she might just run across an article in a magazine that one of her customers leaves behind in a booth, or something. Tom realized that he was hearing the voice in his head. Someone in his control pod, presumably.

Or maybe not. I mean, she's been doing this for just years and years and she's never had a problem with it, or anything.

"Tom, what else did you notice that was strange?" It took him a moment to shift mental gears and realize that Simon had spoken to him. He was accustomed to following more than one conversation at once—a skill he had honed through years of couples therapy—but this was going to take some getting used to. With an effort he focused on what Simon was saying.

"Well," he began, "these men—and they are all men, I suppose you noticed—were all last seen in fairly public places like grocery stores, gas stations and in one case, a Home Depot. Those that walked away from their work places were all in the public areas of their buildings, like the cafeteria or in the main lobby, where public access wasn't restricted."

"That was good, I hadn't noticed that last part." Simon was scanning through the sorted dossiers and reports. "Did you notice anything about the men, themselves?"

Tom considered for a moment. He really hadn't had much time to spend looking at the fifteen dossiers, but he had spoken with Agarwal, earlier.

Age, what about their age? It was the psychic equivalent of a whisper, and Tom wondered if one of his control pod members was somehow communicating on some kind of private channel, outside the 'hearing' of the others. It had sounded like a woman, but different from the first. In a moment of stubborn pique, Tom decided not to use the hint he had been given, it felt like cheating, but it did make him think of something else.

"I noticed that none of these men are really the 'top' person in their field." Tom spoke slowly, voicing his thoughts without much time for analysis. "From their job titles as stated in the files, whether it was at a university, a government research lab or in a corporation, all them were some kind of associate professor, or research assistant, or even just programmer. There wasn't a Chief or a Head or even a Doctor of anything after their names. As a matter of fact, I don't remember seeing a PhD in the whole group."

"Wow," Simon looked thoughtful as he spoke. "I was just going for young, but you really nailed that one."

Tom felt almost ashamed, and reluctant to accept the praise that Simon had so generously offered. He refused become Christian de Neuvillette to some unseen psychic's Cyrano de Bergerac. He decided he was going to have a little. . .discussion. . .with his control pod when he got the chance.

"Anything else, Tom?" Simon asked.

"I noticed that they have more than simple youth, in common." This actually was one of the things he had noted and had intended upon discussing when the opportunity presented itself. "None of these men are critical within the hierarchy of their respective organizations."

"Critical?" Agarwal interrupted. "It would seem just the opposite, Doctor Weldon. These men were all important. They were the shapers and movers of whatever technology they were researching. Many of them had yet to achieve their proper status in their field, but all were considered critical by those with whom they worked. They were the up-and-comers, just paying their dues, as you Americans say."

"Again Mister Agarwal," Simon almost pounced upon the shorter man. He leapt from his chair so quickly that it almost toppled. He began pacing back and forth as he spoke. "How could you know this?" he snapped. "None of this is in the files, and even if the questions had been asked, how often would superiors admit that this young fellow was so important to the organization?" Each rotation of his pacing was bringing him closer and closer to the seated object of his tirade.

"And how is it that you were chosen to be the one representative of over a dozen different companies and government institutions—all of whom have apparently ponied-up a considerable sum? Enough, apparently, to make even Callow giddy with avarice? Why aren't we talking to someone from the Department of Energy about Worthington?, or Cal Tech about Cheng? or to Sony about Davidson?" By this time Simon was standing at Agarwal's side, one hand on the table before him and flourishing a handful of dossiers under the darker man's nose, his own face barely inches away.

"How could you know these things, Mister Agarwal," Simon demanded. "What are you, some kind of mind reader?"

And there it was. Out in the open and just like that. Simon had cut through Tom's and a coterie of psychics best efforts at a slow introduction to the whole concept.

Agarwal had no choice, as far as Tom could tell. "Yes, Doctor Litchfield, as a matter of fact, I am."

"You knew this, already, didn't you, Tom?" Simon asked.

"Doctor Weldon was no more easily fooled than you were, Doctor Litchfield, I assure you." Agarwal's body language told Tom all he needed to know. The man was immensely worried, walking a delicate line. . .and he knew it. "Doctor Weldon's introduction to our plight occurred some time in the past, and I can promise you that his cooperation is entirely of his own volition."

"As far as I can tell, Simon," Tom was being dead serious. "Nobody has been hurt by these folks, so far. I'm not saying I'm crazy about working with people who can read our minds, but I don't see what we can do about it. According to Mister Agarwal, here, they've not only been watching us, but all the other agencies, think tanks, Congress, the President and most of the major corporations, too."

"Must keep you pretty busy," Simon said to Agarwal.

"How did you know?" The little man seemed honestly perplexed. "My people tell me that they were as surprised by your question as I was."

"It was the lobster bisque," Simon said. "From my first bite I could tell that. . .I wasn't the only one enjoying it." Absently, he scratched the back of his head. Tom suspected that something was going on, but he couldn't quite decide what to do about it.

"Funny, some of them are trying to keep me from telling you something, Mister Agarwal." Simon was visibly concentrating on something. "But there seems to be some kind of. . .argument going on. Apparently, you have quite a number of people sitting in on my. . .uh. . .pod?. . .a record number, from some of the comments I'm hearing."

"You can hear them?" Agarwal seemed angry.

"That's what they didn't want me to tell you. Some of them, anyway." Simon looked almost amused as he spoke. "Somebody named. . .Bernardo. . .is very upset that you've found out." He'd had to strain a little for the name, but Tom could tell that Simon was taking advantage of whatever discontent had been brewing.

"Now Saïrem," Simon spoke in a very conversational tone, "Are you going to let her talk to you like that? A woman should know her place, and if she does not, is it not up to the man to show her where it is?"

Tom noticed that Agarwal was straining, fresh sweat had broken out on his face and he seemed to be whispering to himself. He decided to help Simon out, if he could. He directed his thoughts inward, toward that little itch at the back of his mind.

"You people aren't any better at working together than we are, are you?" Tom spoke aloud, but low. His statement could have been directed at Agarwal.

It only took about a second before he felt. . .turbulence. . .in the link between himself and his controllers. Faintly at first, but gaining strength like the murmurs of an approaching crowd, he began to hear the voices. He wondered how long Simon had been dealing with them without letting on. But Simon had to sort through many more than the five in Tom's control pod.

He's doing this on purpose, you know. It was a man's voice, cultured, urbane, perhaps from the Old South.

But he's right and you know it! This one—a girl's voice, maybe the same he'd heard before—was. . .spoken?. . .with surprising venom.

Oh, Right Kara, like you're not just trying to get him to show you his thingy! Maybe get him to touch it while you're still in his mind like you did with that policeman, yesterday. This 'voice' was a little screechy, Tom guessed it to be a post-adolescent male, maybe in his early twenties. The image of thick glasses, greasy hair, and acne scars came to mind, but he wasn't sure from where.

He's listening! Hey! He can hear us! Dammit people we're bleeding over as much as the Morocco pod! And Rodney will you just shut up and leave Kara alone? Please? You know what she's been through. Tom realized that this was the voice he'd heard earlier when he worried that Gillian might encounter the wrong kind of spider in her back room.

Oh, all of a sudden you're worried about him hearing us, huh? Well what about your little secret messages to him trying to impress him with how much you care about his fat old girlfriend. Do you think we're stupid? I bet you want him to show you his thingy, too! So screechy-voice was named Rodney, Tom mused.

You didn't talk so big when Bobby was in charge.

Bobby wasn't trying to see his Thingy!

Rodney, listen carefully, it was Old South's voice, but it was cold, almost inflectionless. Miss Eckleberry is a lady in every sense, and you will refer to her with respect. Tom felt an instant liking for this Southern Gentleman.

And Rodney, if you don't stop using that puerile word, I'm going to make you cut yours off with dull scissors. Do you understand me? Tom shuddered, his opinion of the fellow changing in an instant. Along with the voice there was a feeling of dead certainty. This was no bluff.

Pasteel would never let you. . .

Pasteel isn't a surgeon, Rodney. He doesn't know how to sew it back on for you. And have you seen what the Cayman hospital system is like? They might just put it on backwards. As for Pasteel, what's he going to do, shield me to death?

Now calm down every. . .

You make me do anything, old man, and I'll make sure everything you eat tastes like shit for the rest of your life! There was fear mixed with this message. Tom's experience with such young men was extensive. This kid was way out of his league with the one he had been calling Old South.

Dull scissors can also be plunged into eyes, Rodney. And you know quite well that I will do it.

No you won't, Johnathan. All of you, take a break. I want all of you to get some rest, give each other a hug, and start fresh in the morning. It has been a very trying day for all of you, and I appreciate your efforts.

It was Agarwal's voice, but it was different, somehow. It was more clear than any spoken voice he'd ever heard, and there were emotions coming through to punctuate certain words or phrases. Sadness, sorrow, love, embarrassment, fatigue, disappointment. . . Tom lacked the vocabulary to fully express the differences between what he was receiving and what he was used to gleaning from the words of others. Mutes, Agarwal had called the 'rest' of humanity. Tom felt he may have just had a glimpse of what the man had been trying to tell him.

Regular duties, tomorrow. I will not be needing any more pods for this part of the endeavor. Again, thank you all for your efforts. You are all very dear to me. Miss Kara, I will give you a call, later. Please be prepared to receive it.

Tom realized that he was hearing it all over his link with his control pod. Because he was watching the man, he could see his lips move along with the words, but what he heard in his mind was just slightly delayed, like a bad movie on late-night television. The stout man's body language intimated nothing but defeat, with perhaps some resignation to accept the situation no matter what the outcome. Withdraw everybody, I'm going to stop shielding the links, now. Goodnight.

Suddenly, Tom was alone with his thoughts again. But not quite. He could still feel a. . .connection. . .and with a little concentration, he could tell that there was nobody on the other end. It surprised him how much he missed the richness, the fullness, and the intimacy of the link with the pod. With an effort, he banished this feeling to whatever corner of his mind he saved for feelings he did not want to explore, and began to consider what had just happened. The entire exchange had taken less than a minute. There had been other voices in the mix, urging calm, expressing anger or doubt, but the experience had been not unlike riding a school bus with several chattering children. He could track only so many conversations at once.

He knew that Simon had been speaking out loud to his pod during those moments, but he had been completely unable to follow what had been said. He had the impression that Simon had been egging the situation on in much the same manner, though he was dealing with three times the number of opponents. Tom wondered if that had made it more difficult for Simon, or easier. Sowing discontent in this group had been like shooting fish in a barrel. What a maladjusted bunch this was.

"Doctor Litchfield," Agarwal's every word was etched with weariness. "I believe I have just witnessed a most fascinating and enlightening lesson in mental Aikido." His courteous bow to Simon was very subtle, very Asian.

"Apparently, my Tae Kwon Do approach wasn't so successful," Simon answered, with an odd grin. "Though they didn't seem very anxious to repeat the experience."

"You know about that, too?" Agarwal's resignation was complete. "I suppose I should have anticipated that there would be considerable. . .backchatter. . .in a pod so large. May I ask what else you've learned?"

"Can't you just read my mind?" Simon answered. Tom had been wondering the same thing.

"I can, Doctor Litchfield," he answered. "But right now I am not doing so, and I give you my word that I am an neither of your minds. The process is. . .complicated."

"From what I heard with the five controlling me," Tom ventured. "Your great strength is your mental shield."

Agarwal shook his head in amazement. "You are both formidable men." He paused, considering his words. "And I apologize to your both for mishandling my approach to you. I had hoped that we would have time to speak at great length before I broached the subject of the Collective, at all. By that time, I prayed that you would both agree to help us to find my. . .our. . .lost child."